


Contrasting Only By Circumstance

by BelleGeorgia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Being extra cautious here, But pretty damn dark, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humor if you can believe it, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage, John POV, M/M, Multi, Murder, Not Sherlock & John though, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Please Take Heed of Warnings, Protective John, Recreational Drug Use, Unambiguously Happy Ending, not all dark, post-series 4, sherrinford
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-03-07 23:29:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13445703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelleGeorgia/pseuds/BelleGeorgia
Summary: “You’re not what I expected,” John murmurs.“What do you mean?” Sherlock asks absently. He glances up, one dark eyebrow raised. “You don’t know me.”---The night following the harrowing events at Sherrinford, John finds himself wishing he could go back and change the fate of Sherlock and himself. He wakes up in 1996, aged twenty-three, in a universe where Eurus Holmes didn't kill Victor Trevor.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I have been thinking about and planning for a very long time. Please, please, take heed of the warnings. Things do get very dark, but it isn't all chaos and carnage, I promise. 
> 
> (If you're concerned about any of the tags and would like to know more about them, please feel free to message me and I will try to explain in as much detail as I can without giving too much away)

In one universe, thirty-three years ago, a young girl constructed by the power of nature rather than nurture, full of cold hate and jealousy and nothing much else, decides one day to kill her favourite brothers best friend. In a rather twisted bid to win her brother’s affection and attention, she pushes the small boy down a well, where the child tragically drowns.

After the horrific act, and the girl is send away, through his grief and terror and hurt, the brother grows to forget her and his friend. An act of subconscious self-preservation. Fascinating really, what the mind is capable of.

The brother grows up to adopt the mannerisms of the girl lost in his mind, suppressing all emotion and desire, finding solace and comfort in hard fact and science. Another act of self-preservation. Fascinating. The man lives an adventurous but lonely life, utterly unaware of what could have been, traumatised by an event that he cannot remember.

In another world, thirty-three years ago, a young girl decides the kill her favourite brothers best friend. But then, in a whirl of bizarre circumstance, the boy who is fated to a watery grave catches a bout of flu and ends up not going to his friends house that evening. And with that, her plans are thwarted. And as his friend is absent, the brother makes a life changing decision, unbeknown to him at the time, and asks his sister to play a game of pirates. She agrees. And the young boy, whose name is Victor Trevor, is gifted with the unremarkable fate of life.

In both universes, contrasting only by circumstance, one thing remains the same. And that one thing is John Watson.

 

* * *

 

The ceiling has a new crack. Dust particles float around the room and settle in John’s throat as he breathes slowly in the darkness. A car headlight pans across the room, peeking through the closed curtains and disappearing as it hits the wall over the bed.

John’s bedroom hasn’t changed much since he last slept in it. Never had a lot of personal belongings and the room held strong from the blast a few days earlier. Downstairs is another story, the debris has all been cleaned away (John wouldn’t have let Rosie within ten feet of the building otherwise) but it’s cold from the boarded up spaces where the windows used to be and the living room is barren, anything salvageable having been taken away by Mycroft’s cronies to be cleaned. John hasn’t seen Sherlock’s room, but he assumes there’s at least a bed in it. Hopes so, at least, considering the sofa is gone.

It frustrates John how seamlessly he slots back into the space when it’s been almost over three years he last slept here.

That’s a lie. He slept here after he found out Mary was the one who shot Sherlock, when the curtain of deceit was cruelly ripped away to bare all in an act of unnecessary dramatics that almost cost him Sherlock’s life. Again. He couldn’t stand being near her. Couldn’t stand the thought of Sherlock in pain and ignoring it because no one was here tell him to _sit down for fucks sake you’re going to rip the stitches again._ So he had slept in his old room, and it hadn’t felt like this, then. Because he had known, deep down, that he wouldn’t be staying.

Downstairs, directly below him, his best friend is astonishingly asleep (maybe or maybe not on the floor). He knows this because he can’t hear a peep of noise under him, learned behaviour to know what to listen out for. A habit he won’t ever lose, it seems. Always listening for him, his friend, waiting to hear a body roll over in bed or the soft padding of pacing feet on carpeted floor. His best friend who has died, and resurrected. Who hurt John so many many times and who has unwaveringly, frustratingly always _been there_ since his miraculous return. Who came back different, yet the same and still made mistake after mistake. Who John can’t help but still be angry with. Sometimes livid.

Across the room, Johns motherless daughter sleeps peacefully in her cot, unaware to the the awful turmoil keeping her father awake.

John knows, deep down, that his _lyingmurderingstrongbeautifulhateful_ wife’s death doesn’t lie at Sherlock’s door. He knows, deep down, that the awful guilt of his infidelity (was it truly?) doesn’t, can’t, lie at Sherlock’s door. A sister he never knew existed. A sister he had forgotten. How convenient. It’s illogical to blame his friend for his own actions. _It’s only texting_ . But he can’t help but think how Sherlock, once again, _again_ , has fucked up his life so completely. By simply existing. By being there and always damn _being there and oh god ohgodjustgoaway_.

John shuts his eyes tight and clenches his jaw. The pain in his chest is horrific. It burns down in his stomach, radiates up into his throat. The loss of his wife. The burden of playing both father and mother to his child. The utter agony of Sherlock.

John tries to imagine Sherlock leaving, wants to imagine it. Wants to see if he can stand the thought. Imagines him just going away. Of waking up in the morning and finding Sherlock wasn’t sleeping silently after all but was, in fact, gone. John grunts as an awful stab of nausea hits his gut and he rolls over, pulling his legs up to his chest to relieve it.

He hates it, hates to admit it now more than ever, just how much he needs his friend. Left alone with no one but a young child depending on him. And Sherlock, for fucks sake _typical_ , is so good with Rosie. A natural. Wouldn’t have thought it. Parenting suits him. But then again, Sherlock does have that annoying habit of being good at everything. And Rosie, she adores him. Pulls at his curls and giggles when he pulls a face and pretends it hurts. And that hurts John too, fills him with dread because if his daughter loves Sherlock even half as much as he does, then one day she might also feel this awful, hideous pain John has been living with since the man jumped from that hospital roof.

The best thing to do would be take his daughter and go. Leave in the night. Let Sherlock wake up alone and get on with his life.

But John won’t. He can’t. And it kills him.

John sniffs and clears his throat roughly, willing away the burn in his throat. The mania and terror from the last 24 hours has left him exhausted but his brain won’t stop it’s excessive whirling.

The time in the well, that fear of death had hit him harder than ever before. Harder than any other mad situation he found himself in. Harder than when he was laying in hot sand with a bullet in his shoulder. The fear of a father leaving behind an orphan. The fear of Sherlock being killed by the suppressed trauma of his past.

John rolls onto his back once more and lets out a slow exhale. Closes his eyes. Wishes, not for the first time but with far more feeling, that he could go back in time and change _everything_...

Wondering the time, one hand reaches out blindly for his new mobile that is sat on the bedside cabinet, charging. Mycroft handed him a new one that evening without a word, his old one found smashed in an empty cell along with Mycroft's own and Sherlock’s.  

His fingers collide with metal and a soft thud penetrates the silence as it’s knocked onto the carpet.

John mutters a curse and reaches down, fingers straining and body hanging suspended off the side of the bed as he tries to locate the phone.

Suddenly, the loud bang of a car backfiring, nearly identical to a gunshot, causes John to jump violently. The tender flesh of his temple collides with the harsh wooden corner of the cabinet before his body slips completely off the mattress. The world goes black before he hits the floor.   

 

* * *

 

Birds are chirping. Why are there birds chirping? John had closed the window to try and retain as much heat in the flat considering the broken ones downstairs. They shouldn’t be that loud.

Speaking of the cold, John shivers. He’s _freezing._ Rosie is prodding at his foot. How did she get out of her cot? God, his head hurts.

“Mate?” Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock never calls John ‘mate’. John tries it sometimes. Always weird.

John groans and shifts his weight. Is he on the floor? Must be. It’s too hard and his back is aching. _Ah yes._ He remembers now. Fell out of bed. That’s embarrassing. Why is the floor so cold? Oh yeah. The window is open.

Rosie prods his foot again. Must be hungry.

“Mate. You alright?”

No, not really. “Sher-” That’s all John can manage. Wants Sherlock to help him up. He really should be helping him up. He tries to open his eyes. A stab of blinding light, too bright, and John has a moment of absent panic that he’s actually gone and blinded himself. Did he really hit his head that hard? He tries again. Ah, no, not blind. Just outside.

_Outside?_

John’s eyes snap open. “Wha-?” Above him is a cloudless sky, the blue drowning him. It’s partly hiding behind green and John blinks to focus. Leaves. He’s lying under a tree.

Something prods his foot again. Not Rosie. John glances down. Another foot. John sits up suddenly in a panic.

“Woah, woah, easy,” comes a steady voice and suddenly a hand is resting on his shoulder, pale eyes filling John’s vision.

“Sher-” John tries again. Stops. The eyes, similar colour, different face. John shakes his head to clear away the blurry edges of his vision. The movement sends a sharp stab of pain behind his eyes.

“Good night last night?” A smile of straight white teeth.

John leans back slightly and stares. A young man, looks to be in his late teens or early twenties, is crouching down next to him. He’s still smiling slightly, but dark eyebrows are drawn in concern.

“You alright?” He asks again.

“Wha-where-what?” John babbles, eyes flickering to left then right. He’s in a park. A young woman of a similar age is standing behind the man, biting her lip and alternating between staring at John and the man to his left.

“You’re in Buchan Park,” the man explains patiently. “Do you remember how you got here?”

John looks back at the young man, shakes his head.

“Looks like you spent the night here,” the man chuckles softly. “Friends leave you?”

“What?” John asks in confusion, glancing around again. The grass is a beautiful vivid colour, he can vaguely spot families strolling along a path many yards away.

“Toby,” the girl mutters, taking a step towards the mans turned back and reaches out to touch his shoulder blade. “Maybe we should just…” She trails off, looking pained.

The man, Toby, glances back at her and John sees him shake his head a little. He looks back to John.

“What’s your name?”

“John,” John replies absently, thinking furiously. How the hell did he get here? Has never be known to sleep-walk. _God, I hope this isn’t another kidnapping, it’s been less than 24 hours since the last one for fucks sake._

“Well, John, you been drinking?”

John looks back at Toby, pushing back the panic with practiced ease as his military resolve takes over. “No,” he replies shortly, patting at his jeans pockets for his phone. When did he put on jeans? Of course, the phone isnt there. “ _Fuck_.”

“You’ve got a nasty gash on your temple,” Toby points.

John reaches up with with probing fingers and winces as his head stings from the salt of his finger tips. He brings the digits back into his line of sight and nods at the flakey dried blood on them.

“Maybe he’s been mugged?” The girl offers, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“You don’t remember anything from last night?” Toby asks again, frowning deeply.

“No,” John lies, but he’s hardly going to tell this stranger that he fell out of bed, hit his head, then somehow transported himself into a park in the middle of the night.

“Can you stand?”

John takes the offered hand and pulls himself upright. The world tilts alarmingly for a moment, and he shuts his eyes as it rightens around him.

“Alright, there?” The man’s hands are resting securely on his biceps.

“Yeah,” John lets out a shaky breath and opens his eyes again.

“Do you live round here?” The girl asks, stepping forward.

John lets out a nervous laugh, “I don't even know where _here_ is.”

A look passes between the couple.

“West Sussex,” the girl supplies.

“Ah right,” John nods, self-preservation causing him to adopt an air of familiarity. What the hell is he doing in West Sussex? The last time he had been anywhere near Sussex had been that insane christmas with Sherlock’s parents. Where he had reconciled with Mary. It’s a painful memory and he pushes it from his mind. Another thought overtakes it. No, the last time he had been here was the night before last. And he had been down a well... _Eurus._ Suddenly the panic returns tenfold. Where the hell is Sherlock? Rosie? He glances around himself furiously as if to spot them laying on the grass a few feet away.

“Can I use your phone?” He asks desperately, hand already reaching out towards the young man. Toby frowns at his hand slightly in confusion.

“I...don’t have it with me.” The young man replies slowly. When John simply stares at him he elaborates, “I mean, it’s connected to the wall..in my house?” He poses it like a question, looking a bit lost.

“What?” John snaps, losing patience. “Your mobile! I need to use your mobile!” He wiggles his fingers expectantly.

“Oh!” Toby’s expression clears, but shakes his head. “I don’t have one of those, sorry.”

John blinks at him. Huffs and looks at the girl instead. She shakes her head also.

“Sorry.”

John flings his arms up in frustration. “What type of young person doesn’t own a mobile in this day and age!?”

“Well, they’re really expensive,” Toby mutters defensively. John ignores him and turns in a slow circle.  

“I need to get to a phone.”

“I think you need to get to a hospital,” the girl replies firmly.

“No, I’m fine,” John murmurs distractedly.

“She’s right, mate. We can take you,” Toby offers.

“I don’t need to go to a hospital, I need to find a phone!” John barks, begins to stomp away to where he can see the entrance of the park.

“Wait!”

A dark hand reaches out to grab at his arm, and John tries to jerk away, heart thudding.

“You can’t just stumble off on your own,” Toby tries in a reasonable tone. “Let us take you, there’s a phone box not far from here.”

John turns to survey him, suspicious. “Why do you want to help me?” They could both be working for Eurus, for all he knows. Or whoever has dumped him here.

Toby looks confused, glances at the girl quickly who shrugs. “Because we just found someone lying bloody and unconscious under a tree, with no idea how they got there and we are normal human beings who are rightly concerned?”

John stops and looks into his eyes. Glances at the girl. One pair unusually pale in contrast to dark skin, the other a warm brown. Both look concerned. Both look sincere. John slumps. He doesn’t trust them, not really, but at this point what can he do? He needs their help.

“Okay. Where’s this payphone?”

 

* * *

 

Toby was right, it was a short walk. John had stared around himself, wary, as they crossed the road leading out of the park and down a street towards a row of shops and tried and failed to find recognition in any of his surroundings. As the ache in his muscles subsided from sleeping on the ground all night, or so he assumes anyway, John had started to feel like himself again. Actually feels pretty good, considering. He was absently surprised his shoulder isn’t as stiff as a board from the position and the cold.

Toby had introduced the girl as his girlfriend, and she had swatted his arm lightly and introduced herself as _Evie, I think you’ll find my name is._ The bulk of the people milling about the shops had all seemed to be fairly young, wearing colourful mix-and-match clothing that reminded John of Camden or Brighton, where the entire essence of those places scream Vintage Bohemian, a trend that he recognises in the majority of the youth these days.

Soon enough, John has barricaded himself in the red telephone box, staring at the metal ‘Insert 10p’ sign while the couple stand outside the glass, their muffled voices chattering away.

“Cheap,” John murmurs to himself in surprise, thinking it rather nice that the town had kept the phonebox in the same working condition as he can remember of them when he was younger. Rare to find one that even works at all, these days.

John pats at his pockets again, relieved to find ten pence and doubtfully pushes the coin into the slot, holding the receiver to his ear. A low beep indicates it’s ready for John to punch in the number, and he raises his eyebrows in wonder before quickly inserting Sherlock’s mobile number by heart. Three tones bounce around in a short melody, and a recorded voice announces pleasantly, ‘Sorry, the number you are calling has not been recognised. Please try again.’

John lets out a hiss of frustration, tries it twice more before hanging up in defeat. What the hell? Has Sherlock changed his number without telling him? Doubtful. Maybe Eurus has disconnected his contract or something. He searches his pockets again, finds a twenty pence coin and shoves that in the slot. This time, he enters their old mostly-unused landline number, grateful he had taken the time to memorise it in an odd act of paranoia. He lets out a breath of relief when it starts ringing. After four rings, it’s picked up and feminine voice answers, “Hello?”

“Mrs Hudson?” John asks desperately, heart in his throat.

“No, no one by that name here I’m afraid.” John hears the tell-tell sound of the phone being moved away from a face.

“No, wait, don’t hang up!”

The voice returns, a bit impatient, “Yes?”

“Sherlock! Is Sherlock there?”

“No, lad, this is the Partridge residence. You’ve got the wrong number. Good day.”

They hang up. John closes his eyes, rests his forehead against the glass window, handset still pressed to his ear. His head is still pounding a bit, but the dizziness has subsided thankfully. He wishes he had memorised Mycroft’s number. Mrs Hudsons. Molly’s, Greg’s, anyone elses really. Now he’s utterly lost. Figuratively and literally. There’s a sharp rap on the glass under his face and he jumps away in surprise. Toby is grinning at him, he mouths, ‘Any luck?’ and John shakes his head. He places the phone back and steps out of the box.

“How long does it take to get to London from here by train?” He asks the young couple as they come to meet him.

“Two, three hours?” Evie replies, glancing at her boyfriend in question who nods in agreement.

“How far is the station from here?” John follows up, glancing down the street.

“Not far,” Toby begins. “But you won’t be getting to London tonight.”

John looks at him sharply. “Why not?”

“Train strike-”

“-Again,” Evie interrupts with a roll of her dark eyes.

“Things should be back to normal by tomorrow though,” Toby shrugs.

“Fuck!” John cries, fisting his hands into his hair. “I need to get back now!”

Toby gives him a bit of a disapproving look, reaching out to take Evie’s hand. “Yeah I know, mate, but unless you’ve got a few hundred quid hidden somewhere to pay for a taxi, that’s not going to happen right now.”

John lets out a low groan and drops his hands, willing himself to calm down. Toby is right, there’s no point flying off the handle about something out of his control. He needs to make a plan.

Evie is looking at her wrist watch when she declares, “Toby, we’re so late.”

Toby glances at her in surprise, “Oh god, I totally forgot!” He looks back at John. “We’re meeting a couple of friends at a cafe just down the road, come with us, I’ll buy you a cuppa and we can brainstorm.”

John stares at the two of them. _Nice kids,_ he thinks. “Okay. Thank you.”

As they head off, Evie mutters, “I still think we should get you to a hospital.”

“No really, I’m fine.” When she gives John a side-look of doubt he says, “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

They both chuckle at this, as if he were making a joke. He gives them a critical look. “What?”

“You’re a bit young to be a doctor, aren’t you?” Toby grins, eyebrows arched in disbelief.

John stares. He would be flattered if it were any other circumstance, but this is not by any means a normal day.  

“You’re studying to be a doctor, you mean?” Evie asks after a moment.

“No I-how old do you think I am?” John huffs a nervous laugh.

They both give him a considering look. “Dunno, twenty-four, twenty-five?” Toby guesses.

John splutters, spins suddenly to look himself over in the reflection of a shop window to his right. He stumbles to a stop. And stares. Moves closer.

“Everything alright?”

He doesn’t even register who voices the query, thoughts spinning wildly and he looks over himself. His face is smooth and wrinkle-free. Hair the dusty blonde he remembers before it had developed the silvery highlights of age. He glances down at his hands, at the soft and plump flesh only the youth can possess, at the uncalloused fingertips. “Oh my god,” he breathes, reaching upwards to brush those fingertips across the delicate skin of his face. He pulls at the neck of his jumper with a shaking hand, tugs the material down and to the side to bare his shoulder. Inhales deeply. Nothing. Not a mark. He prods at the undamaged skin. Checks his other shoulder, just in case. Nothing. “Oh my god,” he declares again. He looks up in astonishment. Toby and Evie are looking at him like he’s officially lost the plot. Maybe he has.

“John?”

John gapes at them, eyes unfocused. A thought occurs to him. It’s impossible. Utterly absurd. Asks anyway, in a whisper, “What year is it?”

Toby and Evie glance at each other, she pulls a face. “Definitely think we need to go to the hospital.”

“1996,” Toby replies looking extremely unsettled. “It’s the 18th of June, 1996, John.”

John lets out a very high-pitched, really rather hysterical giggle, covering his eyes with one hand. “Impossible..”

“Mate, I really think we should-”

“No, it’s fine!” John interrupts, overly chipper and dropping his arm. He grins at them, feeling hollow and a little terrified and trying desperately not to show it. By their looks of dismay, he thinks he probably isn't succeeding in that front. “Honestly, I’m alright. Just a moment of confusion. Must of really been hit on the head hard. Yep, that’s it. Just a little dash of amnesia is all, it happens,” he shrugs a bit manically.

“Does it?” Evie looks doubtful.

“More than you’d think,” John replies. Takes a deep breath, lets it out very slowly. “What’s this about a cup of tea?” He gives them a smile that is half pleading. They glance at each other once more, Toby shrugs at her and she sighs.

“Come on then, you definitely seem to need it.”

John gratefully follows them down the road, and can’t stop glancing at himself in the windows of every shop they pass.

 

* * *

 

When they arrive at the cafe, John has somewhat cleared his head. Well, as much as is possible considering he’s fairly certain that somehow he has gone _back in time._ He tries to remember the last thing he was doing before he knocked himself unconscious. He has to choke back another hysterical laugh as he remembers desperately wishing he could do just this, go back in time and change the outcome of his and Sherlock’s life. This must be a manifestation of those thoughts, he thinks logically. He was wishing for the unattainable, then knocked himself unconscious. So, in conclusion: this is a dream. He glances around himself. An extremely vivid dream. That can only be it. Deciding to just ride it out, ignoring the voice in his head that is claiming otherwise, he forces himself to breathe calmly and enjoy the feeling of being twenty-three again. What was he doing when he was twenty-three? He would have, indeed, been a medical student. He vaguely remembers having a girlfriend who lived near Sussex. Maybe he was supposed to be visiting her. And somehow hit his head..in the park. This is insane. Besides, what’s the point of trying to rationalise a dream, anyway?

The little bell above the door chimes as Toby opens it, holding it for Evie and John to step through.

“About time!” Comes a cry from the lone figure of a young man sat at a table, mug of tea in one hand and a book in another. “Was about to send out the search parties!” The boy stands, smiling attractively as they approach. He kisses Evie on the cheek and pats Toby on the shoulder.

“Sorry mate, ran into a bit of a dilemma,” Toby apologises, glancing at John.

Dark green eyes, the colour of moss, flick over to John and he raises an auburn eyebrow in question.

“This is John,” Evie begins, plopping down in a seat and the rest follow suit, “We found him in the park. He got mugged and hit on the head and now he can’t remember what year it is.”

“Really?” the boy perks up, looking at John from over his menu with renowned interest. “I’m Victor.”

“Hi. I don’t have anything to pay you back,” John adresses Toby, a bit awkwardly as he scans his own menu.

“Don’t worry, we’ll all chip in,” Toby smiles and glances around the table. Evie nods back and the other boy shrugs he doesn’t care.

“Thank you,” John says sincerely. Looks back at the auburn haired boy again. “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

The boy passes a knowing look at the couple before smiling indulgently at John. “Victor. Victor Trevor.” He holds out a tanned hand as John’s heart stops.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who liked, commented and expressed an interest in this! 
> 
> Warning for grammar errors, it's my weakness.

Time seems to have slowed down, John is struggling to breathe. Victor Trevor,  _ extremely dead saw-his-bones Victor Trevor,  _ is slowly lowering his hand and turning with a frown of concern towards Toby.

John mentally shakes himself. Swallows hard. “Sorry!” He laughs breathlessly, trying to deflect his odd behaviour by gesturing vaguely at his bloodied temple when Victor turns back to him. “Sorry,” John says again, offering his own hand. “Victor, yes, hello. John Watson.” John belatedly wonders if it’s wise to be using his real name, thinking of the butterfly effect. Bit late now. Also, he’s still fairly confident this is all happening in his head so he supposes it doesn’t really matter. 

Victor hesitates for a second, then takes his hand in a warm, firm grasp with a smile. 

“Maybe someone should take a look at that,” Evie pipes up, pointing at his head wound with her laminated menu.

“You should really go to a hospital,” Victor says, immediately standing up and moving around the table, taking John’s jaw with one hand and tilting his head towards the light.

“You don’t have to-” John begins, a bit startled. 

“Yeah, John’s a doctor in training, Vic,” Toby chuckles.

Victor ignores this, inspecting the wound with a gentle touch. “It’s fairly superficial. The head tends to bleed a lot more than it needs to, makes wounds like this seem a lot worse than they really are. Needs a good clean, though.” 

“Yeah. He knows. John’s a doctor in training, Victor,” Toby repeats, exasperated. He throws John a look of apology. 

“Not a very good one, apparently, if you won’t even go to the hospital,” Evie snickers without malice.  

“I dunno,” Victor smirks, leaning back and dropping his hands. “Aren’t doctors notoriously bad patients?” 

“Apparently,” John murmurs, a bit unsettled by the situation as a whole and even more so with Victors  _ extremely familiar  _ display of an apparent disregard of personal space. John moves to stand. “You’re right though, I should go and clean this.”   

“Need a hand?” Victor offers.

“Leave the man be,” Evie groans.

“No, no that’s fine. Thank you though,” John says in a rush, rather desperate to get a minute of time alone.

Victor nods with a smile and heads back to his seat, punching Toby on the arm when the other boy sends a light punch to his leg. John hurries away towards the back of the cafe. 

He bursts into the lav, which is blessedly empty, promptly locks himself into a cubicle and spends a good couple of minutes hyperventilating. 

Once that is over and done with, he stumbles back out and grips onto a sink, knuckles white. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, fully. Turns his head this way and that. His face is pale,  eyes a bit manic. Dried blood on his temple and running down his cheek. Face young and boyish.  _ Jesus.  _

“What the fuck is going on?” John asks his reflection. It offers nothing back in response except to continue looking a bit terrified. 

John has heard of people having dreams where they are fully aware that they’re dreaming. It’s rare and can be a result of intense meditation before sleep. But the sink is hard and cold under his grip. His head is throbbing slightly and his neck aches from sleeping without his head being elevated. It’s real and authentic and he’s never experienced something like this before. He wonders if he’s been drugged, or if it’s simply a result of stress. God knows he’s been under a lot of strain in the past few months. 

He suddenly wishes Mary was here. She was always good and talking him out of an emotional upheaval. Sherlock is too, in recent years especially, but he’s usually the cause. John takes a moment to ponder on why Sherlock’s actions seem to bear more weight to him than Mary’s ever did. Can’t understand the logic in that. He lets out a groan, “Get a grip, Watson.” Shakes his head and turns on the tap, washing his hands thoroughly. Grabs some thick hand tissue from a basket and runs it under the water before dabbing at his head. 

The sting and meticulous act of cleaning the wound calms John, considerably. This is something he can control. He knows what he’s doing when it comes to patching up damaged skin. This is something that can’t be taken away from him. 

Once the dried blood has been washed away, he inspects the wound closely in the mirror. Victor was right, it isn’t deep. Thankfully no need for stitches. Could do with a plaster though, as fresh blood begins flowing to the surface. John runs another clean piece of tissue under the tap, dabs the wound one last time before dumping the bloodied squares into the bin. He cups his hands under the water, and splashes it across his face, rubbing at his eyes. The cool water feels refreshing and soothing, so he does it again. 

After he pats his face dry, John inspects himself again. Better. Less, manic looking, that’s for sure. The gash is starting to bleed again, so John snatches up a clean tissue and presses it against the wound, urging the blood to clot. 

There’s a sudden knock on the door and John turns towards it.

“John?” Evie’s voice calls cautiously. 

“Yeah? You can come in, it’s empty.”

Evie steps inside, casting a quick look around at the urinals as if she had never seen them before. “Here,” She holds out a plaster. “Thought you might need one, I always carry some in my bag. Sorry, I didn’t think of it earlier.” 

“No, that’s fine. Cheers,” John takes it and she smiles prettily at him before heading back out. 

John quickly unwraps the plaster and sticks it over the cut. Looks at himself one last time. Definitely looks at least half-sane now. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, before following Evie back into the cafe. 

“I got you a cup of tea,” Toby announced as John takes his seat, pushing a mug towards him. 

John nods his thanks and takes a sip gratefully, watching Victor in the corner of his eye as the boy mutters something inaudible to Evie who laughs lightly in response. 

June, 1996. Sherlock would be nineteen.  _ Is  _ nineteen _?  _ John desperately wants to ask where Sherlock is but holds his tongue. There’s no way he could explain himself out of a question like that. Maybe Victor and Sherlock aren't friends anymore, maybe they’ve outgrown each other. John could count on two hands the amount of friends he lost touch with from his early childhood when entering his teen years. 

As if fate is testing his hearts limitations, the bell over the door chimes and John’s three companions look up expectedly. 

“Was wondering when you’d show up,” Toby declares, and John jerks his head towards the door following his line of sight. The boy strolling towards them isn't Sherlock, however. He’s got wildly curly blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a round, boyish face. 

“Yeah, yeah. Ma wouldn’t let me out until I had cleaned my room,” the boy rolls his eyes and slumps down into a seat, grabbing Victor’s mug and taking a gulp.

“Help yourself,” Victor waves a hand in mock invitation. 

“Who’s this?” The newcomer demands, nodding to John but addressing the others. 

“John,” John says shortly, already disliking this boy as they look at each other appraisingly. 

“John, Jules. Jules, John,” Victor supplies, waving a careless hand. John can’t help but notice that no one elaborates. 

“Everyone still coming out tonight?” Jules asks, draping an arm across the back of Victor’s chair and leaning back, ignoring John with ease. 

Toby and Evie both reply with a grunt of affirmation and Victor hesitates, casting John a look.

“Maybe,” Victor murmurs slowly. 

Jules sits upright and turns towards him. “What do you mean, ‘maybe’?” 

“How’s the head?” Victor asks instead, eyes still on John.

“Honestly, I’m fine.”

“Can you remember where you were staying?” Evie asks him, stirring sugar into her cup.

Deciding that playing the amnesia card is probably the safest route, John shrugs and sends an embarrassed look down at his lap, “Nope.” 

“In that case, no I’m not going out tonight,” Victor declares readily. 

John looks up at him in surprise. Jules has a similar expression on his face but it’s marred with disgust. 

“What!? You must be joking, we’ve been planning this for weeks!” the blonde cries loudly and everyone rolls their eyes in a manner that suggests they were expecting this reaction. “You can’t bail out now!”

“Jules, I can’t just leave John here alone with a head trauma and nowhere to go,” Victor replies calmly. 

“I don’t expect you to-” John begins.

“Bring him then!” Jules talks over him as if John hadn’t spoken, making him scowl. “Even Billy said he’s coming,” Jules continues, declaring this with a flare that reads  _ checkmate  _ and he stares at Victor triumphantly. 

Victor, however, scoffs at this and shakes his head. “He was never going to go.” 

Jules’ face drops and he throws Victor a nasty look. “Oh. Right. So you were probably never actually planning to come out either, then,” Jules spits spitefully.

Toby lets out a groan and plops his forehead down on the table. 

“No,” Victor replies slowly, elongating the word with obvious impatience. “Don’t put words into my mouth. Of course I was going to go, but situations change.”

“Then bring-”

“John can’t go out clubbing Jules, he’s got a head injury!” Victor interrupts loudly, looking cross. 

Jules scowls at Victor, turns it to John as if he purposely hit his head with the sole intention of ruining his night out. John ignores the child and turns to address Victor.

“Look, I don’t want to get between you guys and your night out,” John asserts, raising his voice a bit so not to be talked over again. “I can figure out what to do on my own. You’ve done more than enough for me already.” He aims the last sentence at the couple as well, who both look a little uncomfortable.

“There see, he’s fine!” Jules cries, waving a hand.

“Shut up, Jules,” Victor snaps before turning to John. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. We can’t have you wandering around not knowing where you are. We’ll head to mine and make some calls, try to figure out where you’ve been staying. Someone should have a record of you.” 

John is rather touched by this, wondering what’s inspired this amount of concern. Well, he supposes, he would have done the same if he were in their position. But he’s a doctor, these are really just kids.  

“Why do you even care? You don’t even  _ know  _ him,” Jules grumbles, sulking.

“Yeah and what if we turn on the news in the morning to be told a man’s dead body has been found due to an aneurysm after a group of teenagers willingly sent him away on his own, knowing full well he had suffered a head trauma?” Victor says blunty. He murmurs a low apology to John as green eyes watch the blonde boy with raised eyebrows. 

Jules takes this in, eyes squinting and looking thoughtful. After a moment, he nods once reluctantly and everyone lets out a breath. 

“Jesus,” Toby mutters, visibly shaking off the tension in his shoulders as he flashes a look to Evie who widens her eyes at him in reply.

There’s a moment of awkward silence where everyone sips at their tea. John wants to thank Victor again, but decides it’s probably not a good idea to bring the whole thing up again so he asks instead, “So, how do you all know each other? All live in the area?”

“Toby and I go to uni with Victor,” Evie replies promptly, obviously grateful for the change of subject. “We’re just staying here over the summer, but Victor and Jules live here.”

“I've known Jules forever,” Victor mutters, still looking a bit peeved and he says it with a small amount of bitterness. John resists the urge to smirk at the tone. 

“Oh right. Where do you guys study?” 

“Cambridge,” Toby says with pride. “We all do Law.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Impressive.” 

“Thanks,” Toby grins and Evie gives him a soft look. “I got in on a scholarship, so I’m pretty chuffed about it.” 

“So you should be,” John replies firmly and smiles at the young man. John turns to give Jules a questioning look, not petty enough to ignore the boy as he did John. 

“I’m taking a year out,” Jules explains with an air of relaxed self-assertion. “Still trying to decide what I want to do.”

“That’s fair,” John nods agreeably.  

They dissolve into casual chatter, Toby filling Jules in with a brief recount of their morning finding John, and then Evie explaining how her parents disapprove of her relationship with Toby, which is partly the reason they came to stay in Sussex over the summer. Toby looks a little miserable at this, so she quickly changes the subject, promising to ask around the B&B they’re staying at if anyone has any information on John. 

They order a few plates of chips and share them around the table, John not realising how hungry he is until the food arrives. He helps himself gratefully.

Jules seems to have got over the whole night out drama, and alternates between bringing up inside jokes with Victor, who humours him half-heartedly, and grilling the young couple on what they’re going to be wearing, what they’re planning to drink, how much money they’re taking and so on. John tries to feign interest, reminding himself that he’s now twenty-three instead of forty-three and that he still relates to the mundane talk of partying.

When the conversation turns to gossip, John perks up, listening intently with an air of casual indifference, hoping to hear a name he recognises. Even hearing Mycroft's name would be a blessed relief at this point. He doesn’t come up, no one of importance does and John’s sinking feeling intensifies. Maybe the Holmes’ moved away. Victor might not have seen them for years for all John knows, might not even remember them at all. He was only six years old when he died. 

That thought makes John grimace as he watches the young man flick a chip at Toby with a laugh, who tries and fails to catch it with his teeth. It’s difficult to stomach, witnessing first hand this person so full of life and vibrant with personality and kindness, eating and laughing with his friends. Knowing how back at home he’s nothing but a small pile of bones. That he missed out on this, on everything, on life itself. Had barely begun  _ to  _ live. It was easy for John to distance himself from those thoughts before, to picture him as just another faceless victim who was unfairly dealt the card of death at a cruelly young age. But now it’s just painful. The evidence of a life lost in sparkling clarity, in front of his very eyes.

John swallows, has to look away.

When midday rolls around, Victor looks down at his watch and leans back in his chair.

“Right, I’m off to see Sherlock at the shop,” he declares, standing up with a stretch. John snaps his head round so fast his neck cracks. “Anyone coming?”

There’s a resounding ‘no’ around the table that makes Victor chuckle. John’s heart is leaping wildly in his chest. The words  _ thank god thank god oh thank god  _ ricocheting around his skull. 

“I thought he was finished with that?” Evie frowns as Victor pulls out a couple of notes from his back pocket and drops them on the table. 

“He was, but he got into a fight,” Jules cackles and makes a grab for the money. Victor snatches it up again with a roll of his eyes and hands the paper to Toby.

“Coming John?” Victor asks, not waiting for an answer and tugging at John’s arm. John stumbles to his feet. “Maybe a walk into town will jog your memory. Have a good night, guys.” He gives a wave and starts heading towards the door.

“Thanks for all your help,” John remembers to say to the table, thoughts utterly elsewhere, before following.

“Good luck!” Evie smiles.

“Yeah, it was good to meet you, man. Hope things work out,” Toby shakes his hand briefly and then John is turning away.

“Yeah good luck meeting Sherlock!” Jules calls with a laugh. Ignores Evie’s ‘ _ that isn’t what I meant and you know it’,  _ following up with, “Can’t miss him, John, he’ll be the pretty brunette with bloodied knuckles!” The table dissolves into groans and laughter as Victor leads John out the door and down the street.

“Ignore him,” Victor murmurs, smiling slightly and shaking his head.

“Who’s this then?” John asks, trying to keep his voice casually curious while a achingly desperate for any information. “Sherlock?”

“My best friend,” Victor declares, a mixture of pride and exasperation on his face that John painfully recognises personally. “Been that way since we were two. My father works with Sherlock’s mother. Well, used to.” He shrugs.

“He works in a shop?” John asks, can’t keep the thread of disbelief out of his voice. Victor gives him a small side glance, but doesn’t comment on it.

“In a manner of speaking. More like..community service. Was supposed to finish yesterday but--yeah. Well,” he shrugs again, offers nothing more.

John bites away the questions on his tongue, follows Victor blindly as his heart thumps wildly in his chest. The last time he had seen Sherlock the man had been thirty-nine, the scent of sea salt clinging to his clothes and curls. Exhausted and shaken from a day of playing dangerous games with a psychopath and trying not to show it, he had all but flown into his bedroom when they had entered the flat, hadn’t said a word as he softly clicked the door behind him so to not to wake the baby. 

John has, on many occasions, tried to imagine Sherlock as a teenager. A child, even. Depending on the mood of Sherlock from the day, that had either been an impossible feat or incredibly easy. Even still, that’s a different Sherlock than the one who lives here, his childhood would have been markedly different.  _ He  _ would be different, surely. 

After not very long at all, Victor turns a corner and makes his way up the short path towards an old book shop. Tall piles of books frame the doorway, spilling out into the street. John follows, swallowing. Victor expertly weaves around the precariously balanced towers, some taller than himself as he heads inside.

The shop is small and over-filled, the slightly sweet scent of old paper and ink floats in the air. Old but comfy-looking armchairs are scattered around the room where enough floor space will allow. It’s a bookworm's paradise.

“Billy, your dad’s here,” a feminine voice calls from the counter where a young blonde woman sits, a book in one hand and cold expression on her face. 

John has a sudden realisation that Jules must have been referring to Sherlock when he mentioned a ‘Billy’ back in the cafe. Wonders where the nickname came from, and why Victor doesn’t seem to use it. Hasn’t yet, anyway. 

“Olivia,” Victor greets smoothly, smirking slightly.

The girls eyes narrow as she gives an insincere smile full of teeth. “Trevor.” Her dark eyes flick over John momentarily before turning back to her book, uninterested. 

“Father?” A deep voice calls with a playful lilt from behind a particularly enormous stack of old tomes and John’s breath catches in his throat.

“Where are you, my son?” Victor calls, voice pitching an octave lower as he flicks through a journal absently with a grin. The girl, Olivia, rolls her eyes.

“Holmes!” Another voice suddenly barks from their left. An extremely old and fragile-looking man with white hair and a severe face shuffles out of a side room and makes his way over to where Sherlock’s voice came from, disappearing behind the stack. “I thought I told you to stop eating the sweets from the children's section!”

“I haven't touched them!” comes the petulant reply.

“Then why is your tongue blue?” the man snaps.

There’s a moment of silence that is broken by Victor and Olivia snorting at the same time. She looks up and glares in an affronted manner at Victor for sharing the sound.

“It’s bluetongue disease.”

“Bluetongue only affects sheep,” Victor calls mildly.

“And some cattle,” the book pile replies, pompously.

There’s a lot of huffing and general sounds of frustration before the elderly man rounds the corner with an arm full of books, muttering how he ‘ _ can’t deal with another week with this brat, no respect… _ ’ and stops dead when he spots John and Victor, the latter who quickly ceases his mindless flipping of pages and snatches his hand away. The elderly man gives the younger a disgusted look. “You! I thought I told you not to come back in here!”

Victor looks surprised. “You did? When was that?” 

“I told Holmes no visitors!” 

“He never told me, sir,” Victor states politely.

“Betrayed! By my own father to boot!” The faceless voice cries and Olivia ducks her head behind her book.

Victor blinks innocently as the old man bares yellowed teeth and glares balefully at them before storming back into the side room. 

A dark head pops out from behind the tall stack across from them and John stares. “Has he gone?” Sherlock asks.

“Another week eh?” Victor grins, moving towards him as Sherlock steps out. He’s as tall as the Sherlock from home, yet his face is smooth and lacking the subtle lines of age around his eyes and forehead that John is accustomed to. His inky black hair is a little shorter, cropped at the sides and left stylishly unruly at the top. Pale and skinny as ever, but a little more gangly than John knows him to be, as if he had recently had a growth spurt and the rest of his body hasn’t caught up with it yet. His tongue  _ is  _ blue, John can spot it as Sherlock pulls a face. He really doesn’t look that much different, just younger. Except. John frowns as Sherlock steps into a stream of light cascading down from a high window. His eyes. Eye, rather. Left eye, looks unnaturally darker than the right.

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock rolls those odd eyes before settling them almost immediately on John. No, the left isn't darker, the pupil is blown wide. As if someone had covered it with a dark cloth, blocking out all light, and it never recovered. 

Anisocoria. 

John wonders how it happened, surely not born with it or Sherlock from home would have the same condition. Possible trauma to the pupil then. Can also be caused by head injury or stroke. Latter unlikely given his age. Difficult to fix. Usually harmless. Causes the eye to sease responding to light, making the iris appear darker. 

They stare at each other, assessing. Sherlock’s eyes flick up and down John’s body in a familiar pattern and John finds himself holding his breath. Waits for the deductions to pour from the plump mouth. Waits for the ‘ _ Afghanistan or Iraq? Military doctor, but in another life. Has been transported back in time and is undeniably unsettled. Knows me but is trying not to show it _ .’ 

None of that comes, obviously, because that’s absurd. 

But then, nothing comes at all.

“Sherlock Holmes,” is all the tall boy says, reaching out a long fingered hand and John takes it, astonished. His palm is warm and familiar, and when John’s fingers brush knuckles they are rough and calloused. He looks down. Ah yes, as Jules said, dark scabs adorn four of the delicate bulges, each surrounded by a ring of blue and purple bruising. 

“John Watson,” he breathes, overwhelmed and wanting nothing more to grab those long arms and run. Find a secluded corner and fill him in on the madness from the past few hours. Get Sherlock’s take on the situation and calculate a plan to get home. He pushes down that impulse as Sherlock smiles slightly, a smile he reserves for witnesses and the press, one that is deliberately polite but doesn't reach his eyes. He retracts his hand. 

Victor is watching them silently, smiles when Sherlock looks his way. “Toby and Evie found John early this morning in the park. We’re lead to believe you got mugged, right John? But he hurt his head and can’t remember how or why he’s here.”

Sherlock turns back to John immediately, eyes brightening like they do when there’s a particularly interesting case opportunity. 

“Fascinating,” he murmurs, looking over John again with fresh appreciation. John knows Sherlock’s reading a magnitude of detail in his clothes, body language, skin and hair and who knows what else. Knows this because he’s on the receiving end of that look at least three times a day. Can even pinpoint when Sherlock has found something new or interesting by a small quirk in his eyebrow. He’s doing it right now. 

But whatever he finds, he keeps to himself. It unsettles John a little and he’s not sure why. 

“So we’re on a mission to help him. You in?” Victor grins.

Sherlock scans John one last time, a quick flick of his eyes, and turns back to Victor. “I thought we were going out tonight?”

“Change of plan. I’m sure you’re heartbroken.”

“I may never recover. I’m absolutely gutted,” Sherlock intones, blank-faced.

“As if you were going to come anyway,” Victor snorts. “When do you finish?”

Sherlock glances over to the girl at the counter, who meets his gaze with an unimpressed look. Sherlock sends her a charming grin and she narrows her eyes at him. He turns up the wattage of the smile a notch. She huffs.

“Do what you want, I really couldn’t care less.” She turns back to her book.

Sherlock turns and directs the smile at Victor. 

“No need to look so smug, it wasn’t your smile that swayed her,” Victor chuckles as Sherlock dances his way back to the pile of books he originated from. He disappears for a moment before reappearing with a small book in his hand and saunters over to the counter. Olivia hands over a wallet and a set of keys without looking up from her book and Sherlock pockets them in his jeans. 

“Was thinking of going to mine, start calling around at the local hotels and B&B’s. See if anyone recognises John’s description or has his name down somewhere,” Victor explains as Sherlock shrugs on a leather jacket that was hanging over the back of Olivia’s chair, tucking the book he holds into an inside pocket. 

Weird to see him in casual clothes, John thinks. 

“We’ll go to mine,” Sherlock announces, walking back over to them and heading for the door. “It’s closer.” 

Victor rolls his eyes at John. “Yes, your majesty.” 

“See you tomorrow, Liv,” Sherlock calls over his shoulder.

“You better, Billy.” 

They file out into the street once more and start walking, pass a few shops until John can’t hold it in any longer. “Why does she call you ‘Billy’? I noticed Jules referred to you as that earlier as well.” 

“What was he saying?” Sherlock asks instead, ushering John and Victor down a alley with tall hedges on either side. 

“Nothing of importance,” John replies, thinking of the boy with distaste. Sherlock glances over at him and quirks a lopsided smile.

“Undeniably true, I’m certain.”

“Ah, leave off. Jules is alright,” Victor scolds lightly, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself.

“Jules is a moron,” Sherlock replies shortly. Victor opens his mouth to speak again but Sherlock talks over him, “My first name is William, and they both take immense pleasure in reminding me of the fact,” Sherlock says with a shrug. “I think they believe it bothers me, although I’ve never given them any evidence to reach that conclusion.” Victor snorts.

“How come you don’t go by William, then?” John has always wondered, never asked.

“It’s also my father's name. I imagine it would get confusing,” Sherlock answers, sounding bored. He turns his head suddenly, fixating his eyes on John. “What is the last thing you remember before Toby and Evie found you?” 

“Erm,” John falters for a second, thinking rapidly. Decides to go with as much truth as he can, taking Sherlock’s old advice from years ago that, ‘ _ Only lies have detail.’  _ “I was in bed at home, trying to sleep.”

“London.” It isn't a question and John quirks his lips. Victor glances up. 

“Yeah. How did you know?” 

Sherlock’s eyes flick over to Victor and the auburn haired boy gives him a vaguely sharp look. John frowns but hides the expression before Sherlock looks back. 

“I told him earlier,” Victor supplies with a smile at John. Sherlock breathes in deeply and turns away. 

John flashes a look between them, uneasy. It’s a lie, John would be able to see as much even if he didn’t know Sherlock at all. Doesn’t comment. “Right. Well, yeah. Then I woke up. And I was here,” John shrugs in bafflement that isn’t forged. 

“You didn’t have any plans to come here, before? No family in the area? Friends?” Sherlock asks.

“Not that I know of. I used to have a girlfriend who lives here but we broke up ages ago,” John doesn’t know if that’s true or not, can’t remember the exact timeline of that breakup. It was a fleeting relationship, he can’t even recall the girls name. 

“Interesting,” Sherlock drones, deep in thought. 

The alley opens up and they walk out into a field. Running along the edge of the greenery is a dusty pathway and they head down it. Victor asks John about his studies, and they natter on about university life for a while, Sherlock not contributing to the conversation until John asks,

“Do you go to uni, Sherlock?” 

“Not at the moment,” he replies distractedly.

“Sherlock  _ was  _ at Oxford, but he got expelled,” Victor says with an exasperated chortle. 

“Oh?” John chuckles, looking towards Sherlock for elaboration.

“He set fire to the science lab one too many times,” Victor supplies for him, shaking his head and giving Sherlock a small nudge with his elbow.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It was only twice. And they were both accidents.” 

“Yeah yeah, and coincidently you now are starting in Cambridge with me come September. It’s that fortunate?” Victor says innocently and Sherlock nudges him back, a bit harder.

“Nothing to do with me.”

“They let you into Cambridge after you got expelled?” John asks in disbelief. 

“My brother made a deal with them. As long as I continue to study chemistry, or natural sciences as is the equivalent they provide there, and promise to be an exemplary student I can stay.”

“He had to sign a contract and everything,” Victor laughs.

“Is that why you have to do community service?” John grins.

Victor stop laughing suddenly. 

“No.” Sherlock replies shortly, not looking at him. 

John drops the matter, sensing the tension in that line of questioning. 

“So,” he flounders for a new topic. “You’ve known eachother since you were little?” He aims the question at Victor, who gratefully pounces on the subject and starts babbling about the shenanigans he and Sherlock used to get up to when they were younger. He talks of playing pirates in the fields and John smiles at that, peeking at Sherlock every now and then who doesn’t seem to be listening. 

Soon enough, they come to a huge old manor house that seems to have been randomly placed amongst the nature.  _ Musgrave.  _ John has to actively stop himself from stumbling at the sight of it. He’s seen it once before, of course, but this house is standing strong and undamaged where fire had destroyed the building years ago in another world. Sherlock sends him a look, picking up on his brief hesitation. 

“You live here?” John asks, pretends his faltering is due to awe as they head towards it.

Sherlock simply nods and pushes open the small iron gate and heads up the path leading to the large arched door.

“You’re back early!” A cheerful voice calls from their left. John squints and a graying head pops up from behind a bush.

“We’re solving a mystery, Mr Holmes!” Victor shouts over in delight.

“How wonderful! Anything I can help with?” Sherlock’s father steps round the bush, holding a pair of gardening shears and brushing a gloved hand down the front of his endearingly floral apron.

“Doubtful,” Sherlock mutters and Victor slaps his arm lightly. “I think we’re okay, Dad,” he calls over as the older man makes his way over to them.

“This is John, he has amnesia,” Sherlock introduces. “John, my father, William Holmes.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” John shakes his gloved hand.

“Amnesia, eh?” Mr Holmes asks with raised brows. His smile is infectious and John recalls always enjoying his easy-going company during the handful of times they had met.

“Afraid so, Mr Holmes,” John replies easily. 

“Well, that is a bugger.” His smooth acceptance makes Johnn smile inwardly, knowing it’s probably a habit he’s accustomed to doing in regards to anything Sherlock does. “And William, please. Have to remind this one enough times to call me that,” he smiles over at Victor. “‘Mr Holmes’ makes me sound old.”

“You  _ are  _ old,” Sherlock declares and starts heading towards the house again.

“Unfortunately, he is right,” Mr Holmes sighs, unfazed. “I’ll be out here if you need anything,” he smiles again and heads back to his bush. Turns back suddenly. “Oh, also, I found a bunch of cigarette buds behind the shed again. Know anything about that Sherlock?” He sends a wink towards John as Sherlock stiffens momentarily and glances back with an innocent expression.

“Nope. Must be Mycroft again. I keep telling him he needs to quit.”

“Oh, that must be it,” Mr Holmes nods charitably with a knowing look at his son. “Well, I’ve thrown them away. You tell  _ Mycroft  _ this is the last time I do so without informing his mother.”

“Will do,” Sherlock nods with a strained smile.

“Odd,” Mr Holmes continues with an air of perplexity. “How he manages to transport his cigarette buds all the way from London to here every day. And the smell of them into your room too, Sherlock.” He raises his eyebrows and smirks at Sherlock. “Ah well, he is a man of mystery!” He grins brightly at the three of them and turns away. “Nice to meet you John!”

“And you,” John calls to his retreating back.

Sherlock shoots them a look and Victor bursts out laughing.

“I love your dad,” Victor chuckles as they enter the house. “Almost as much as you love mine.” He starts laughing fully again as if the notion is absurd as John takes in the large entrance hall with its grand staircase and high ceilings.

Sherlock huffs in reply, spinning away fluidly and heading towards the second door on the right. 

The room is spacious but homely, adorned with large overstuffed armchairs and sofas, various paintings in soft greens and blues of the rolling sea waves hang around the walls. A bulky television set sits in one corner, a small collection of video tapes lined up on a shelf underneath. John smiles at it in nostalgia as he plops down in an armchair cater-cornered to Sherlock, who flops down on the sofa kicking off his boots and laying across the cushions in a familiar manner. Victor pushes his feet away and takes the seat himself, allowing Sherlock to plop them back down onto his lap once he’s settled. 

“You’ve got a nice home,” John feels like he should comment. As he predicted, Sherlock just shrugs in reply.

“Anyone else in?” Victor asks, casting a look upwards towards the ceiling. John wonders if he’s referring to Eurus, who surely still lives with her family since she obviously never murdered Victor. Unless she killed someone else, that is. The thought makes John suppress a shudder and glance up also. 

Sherlock follows their gaze and pauses as if listening to the house. After a moment he looks back down with a shake of his head, “No.”

“Right,” Victor leans forward, all business. “We need to find the numbers of all hotels, B&Bs and hostels in the area. How do we get them?”

Sherlock waves a careless hand towards the door. “Mum should have a few numbers in her address book from dad’s birthday last month. It’s in the kitchen somewhere.” He looks at Victor expectantly. 

Victor narrows his eyes at him. “I’m not searching through your mum’s things for you, Sherlock.”

“It’s not for me, it’s for John,” Sherlock states haughtily and makes a show of getting comfortable. Victor groans, shoves Sherlock’s feet off his lap a bit viciously and stands.

“Fine, but if she catches me I’m telling her about the cigarette buds.”

“Okay,” Sherlock gives him a large smile. 

Victor rolls his eyes and leaves the room.

Alone for the first time, and uncomfortably aware of it, John gives Sherlock a veiled look. Sherlock is staring up at the ceiling, looking a bit smug.

“How did you know I was from London?”

Sherlock snaps his head round to look at John. “I’m sorry?”

“Earlier, you stated home for me was London. How did you know?”

Sherlock hesitates. “Victor told me.” He gives John a condescending look, “He did say.”

John ignores the look, knows Sherlock well enough to tell when he’s deflecting. “I didn’t hear him tell you that.”

There’s a pause where Sherlock looks away and back to the ceiling. “It was said in passing.”

“No it wasn’t. How did you know?” John is persistent, beyond curious. Concerned, even. It isn’t like Sherlock to pass up a chance to impress. 

Sherlock lets out a deep exhale, glances at John for a moment before sitting up suddenly. He swings his legs down onto the floor and turns to face John fully. His distinct eyes flick down John’s body again and he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. He looks back to John’s face with an odd mixture of reluctance and determination.

He takes a deep breath, and begins in a rush that John is accustomed, “The mud on your shoes. It’s fairly old but new enough for you to not have taken notice of it yet and as a rather clean cut man, taking into consideration your nails and hair, it wouldn’t be long until you found yourself scrubbing them in the sink of my bathroom. The consistency and amount splashed up the back of your jeans depicts it was diluted with water. It hasn’t rained here in over a week, whereas the weather in London has been notoriously bad in recent days. They even mentioned it on the news. Why London though? It’s surely been raining elsewhere in the country. That’s easy enough. Your accent and brisk walk, commonly found in Londoners acclimatised to the impatience of a fast-paced city. Speaking of your walk, I would have originally presumed that, partnered with your posture, you were a military man but considering your age and the fact you’re quite obviously a medical student, I think I might have that wrong. Cadets? A possibility, but you’d hardly have time to pursue both with the intensity of your chosen course. So, in that case, I’m lead to believe it’s just..how you are.” He looks unsatisfied with the end conclusion, frowning deeply.

John is grinning. Relieved, pleased and duly impressed. “Remarkable.”

Sherlock is looking a bit pained now, staring down at his hands. “I’m sorry, that was-” He stops, registers John’s reply, and snaps his head back up to meet his gaze. “Did you just say ‘remarkable’?” 

John nods. “Yes. Remarkable. Really quite extraordinary.” 

Sherlock stares at him, surprise etched into every inch of his face. “That’s..not usually how people react,” he murmurs slowly. 

“How do people usually react?” John asks, knowing the answer as they’ve had this conversation before. 

This time, however, Sherlock doesn’t reply with a flippant variation of  _ ‘Piss off’.  _ Doesn’t say anything at all, just watches John intently. John gives him a tentative smile and after a moment Sherlock’s lips twitch slightly in response. 

“Found them!” 

Sherlock leans back abruptly in his seat as Victor comes barreling in, an open notebook in one hand. 

Victor heads over to a small console table where a black rotary phone sits, pulling up a chair from a desk opposite. 

* * *

 

An hour later, Victor hangs up the phone one last time and gives John an apologetic look. 

“Nothing, I’m afraid. No one has heard of you.” 

John gives him a supportive smile, obviously expecting this outcome. “Ah well, thanks for trying anyway.” He moves to stand. “I should probably call some of them myself, anyway. Somehow try and persuade someone to let me book a room without putting down a deposit.”

“You can stay here,” Sherlock blurts suddenly. It’s the first thing he has said all hour, having laid back down across the sofa and proceeded to ignore the events around him, reading the book he had taken from the shop earlier. John and Victor glance at him in surprise. Sherlock doesn’t look at them, eyes still on the pages in front of him. “If you want. It’s not as if we don’t have the space,” he shrugs, tone indifferent.

“Are you sure?” John asks, hopeful. “Won’t your parents mind?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock looks up finally and rises into a seated position, closing his book with a snap. “Besides, how exactly were you planning to pay for your stay at a hotel without any money?” 

“I don’t mind lending it,” Victor says, giving Sherlock an odd look. “You can always pay me back once-”

“Tedious,” Sherlock interrupts dismissively. “Why go through all that trouble when you have a perfectly free option here?” He fixes his gaze onto John, who swallows. “Up to you, of course.”

John hesitates, relieved and nervous at the prospect of staying here with Sherlock. Entertains the thought, again, of telling Sherlock the truth once Victor has gone home for the night. Would Sherlock believe him? Doubtful. Plus, John has no idea how to even go about  _ that _ conversation.  _ ‘Oh, by the way, I’m actually from the future in another world where we live together with my infant daughter and your sister killed your best friend when you were six.’  _ Yeah. Maybe not. Still, if John had to spend the night anywhere in this mad situation, any mad situation to be honest, he would rather Sherlock be with him. That sentiment makes John pause. He pushes it aside.

“Okay, thanks,” he smiles gratefully at Sherlock, who smiles back.

“I’ll stay too, then,” Victor announces, wandering back to the sofa and collapsing into it.

John fights to hide a frown, the notion making him irritable for some reason. Victor is nice enough, but Sherlock seems..not guarded per say but contained. His reluctance to voice his deductions, and that weird moment earlier in the alley, gives John the impression Victor doesn’t approve of Sherlock’s skill. The fact that Sherlock deliberately acts to hide it doesn’t sit well with John, who is used to the man having absolutely no concern for what anyone thinks of him. Sherlock does what he likes, regardless of consequence. It frustrates John to no end, sure, infuriates him even, but it’s who he is. Sherlock has got better, more noticeably since he came back from his ‘travels’, but he’s still utterly shameless and John secretly likes that about him. Never realised that until just now, actually. There’s something oddly admirable about not caring about what anyone thinks of you.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Victor. This way you can go out with your friends, as planned.” 

John watches Sherlock, who seems to be carefully not looking in his direction.

“They’re  _ our  _ friends, Sherlock.” Sherlock rolls his eyes at this. “Bedsides, I don’t really feel up to it now.” Victor leans back with a sigh of content.

“What about Jules?” Sherlock presses. “You know you’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t go. And he’s bound to get himself into a fight of some kind.”

“You’re one to talk,” Victor raises an eyebrow. “Anyway, how does that appeal to me at all? Going out solely to play babysitter?” 

“Well, you have been planning it for weeks,” John finds himself saying. Victor shoots him a betrayed look.

“Exactly! You’ll have a wonderful time, I’m sure,” Sherlock grins at Victor, as if the matter is settled. 

Victor looks at them both, frowning slightly. He huffs and throws up his arms in defeat. “Fine! I can see when I’m not wanted,” he glares at Sherlock half-heartedly and stands.

“That isn’t what I meant, I just know you’d regret it if you didn’t attend,” Sherlock explains patiently. John stops himself from giving Sherlock a small grin at the not-so-subtle manipulation in that statement. Reminds himself that Sherlock doesn’t know John, here. Doesn’t know that John  _ knows  _ Sherlock. 

Sherlock glances at him anyway, as if hearing his thoughts and twitches one eyebrow, the movement almost invisible.  

“I know, I know. You’re probably right,” Victor sighs and reaches for his denim jacket where he had thrown it over an empty chair. He pauses. “Wait, you have work tomorrow,” he points out, clicking a finger-gun at Sherlock. 

“And?” 

“John will be left alone.”

“I’m sure John would survive if..I were to go to work tomorrow.” Sherlock says the last bit as if it is a hypothetical situation and Victor squints at him suspiciously.

“You have to go, Sherlock.”

“I know! I’m joking.” He smiles. Victor turns away with a shake of his head, shrugging on his jacket. Sherlock looks at John, mouths ‘I’m not going’ while Victor’s back is turned. John masks a laugh with a cough. 

“Right, I’ll pop round tomorrow anyway. See if anything has changed. Hopefully the trains are back up and running by the morning,” Victor gives John a friendly look as he turns back.

“Hopefully!” John stands and shakes his hand. “Thanks for all your help, anyway. You didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” Victor brushes it off. “Be good,” he directs at Sherlock, who pulls an offended face. 

John chuckles. “Have a good night.”

“Cheers. I’ll try.” He sends a small wave at them both and exits. A few seconds later, John hears the front door close. He turns, Sherlock is watching him again. Silence.

“You’re very stare-y, aren't you?” John comments lightly, says it to break the odd tension that’s filled the room. 

Expecting Sherlock to roll his eyes, John’s taken-aback when he looks away quickly with a muttered apology. 

“Why are you apologising?” John asks, feeling a bit guilty for some reason. He retakes his seat.

Sherlock looks back up at him. Frowns. Seems to be seriously considering the question. “I’m not sure.” 

John grins at him. Sherlock smiles back and just like that, the tension is gone. 

Sherlock leans back once more, a picture of ease. “You didn’t want Victor to stay. Why?”

John blinks in surprise, not thinking he was being that obvious. “I didn’t not want him to stay. Just..I didn’t want him missing out on my behalf.”

“Hm.” Sherlock gives him an appraising look. 

“I could ask the same thing to you,” John tests.

“I love Victor, but he can be exhausting,” Sherlock replies easily enough. 

John chuckles lightly until the first half of the statement registers in his head. An unwelcome thought accompanies it suddenly, something John hadn’t contemplated before. He’s only ever heard Sherlock declare love for one person since he’s known the man. And that was for John, himself at his wedding. And it had taken almost five years of knowing Sherlock for the detective to admit. The casual way he says it now, about Victor, sends a unexplainable twinge in John’s gut.  _ Jealousy?  _ John didn’t think he was so infantile.

“Are you two..” he trails off, watching Sherlock intently. It’s a stupid conclusion to jump to, he knows that, logically. Sherlock never meant he loved John in  _ that  _ way. But still. He’s asked it now.

“Are we what?”

John gestures vaguely with both hands. Sherlock looks confused. John makes his palms meet together and raises his eyebrows. 

“Are we fucking?” Sherlock asks candidly. 

John chokes on his own saliva. Well then. Sherlock watches him calmly as he catches his breath, a little amused. 

“No, we’re not. If that’s what your asking.” Sherlock smirks. 

“Right. Right. No I just..wondered.” 

“Mm.”

John blinks at him. Sherlock rarely uses profanity, eloquent enough to express himself without it. The offhand remark rattles him. Not necessarily the swearing, or the glib way he said it, but more that that was the first conclusion he got to. Sherlock doesn’t know about sex, John is almost entirely certain. If not only from the remarks of Mycroft and Irene Adler, but the way it’s so obviously the last thing he thinks of in any situation. Sex confuses Sherlock. He doesn’t  _ think  _ about it.

“I actually meant, more, if you two were together,” John explains, quietly. 

“Isn’t it the same thing?” Sherlock leers.

“Not necessarily.” 

Sherlock considers him, his smile dimming gradually into a vacant expression.

John opens his mouth to speak.

“Boys! There you are!”

John jumps. Mr Holmes is standing by the door, bright eyed and sunkissed. 

“Victor gone?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock murmurs, eyes not moving from John’s face.

“Ah, okay. I’ll be making tea soon. Fancy anything in particular? Are you staying for dinner, John?” 

“Actually, John’s going to be staying the night,” Sherlock looks away finally, smiles up at his father. “Is that okay?”

“Of course! Partial to a carbonara, John?”

“Yes, great. Lovely. Ta.” John nods jerkily, thrown.

“Wonderful. Be about an hour or so.” The salt and pepper head disappears.

Sherlock is watching him again. “I’ll show you to a spare room.”  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented, I love hearing your thoughts on this!

“More wine, John?”

John glances up from his plate as Mr Holmes tops up his glass without waiting for a reply.

“Oh, thanks.” John takes a sip and watches as the elder Holmes reaches across the table to fill Sherlock’s glass too, who’s hardly touched the wine or the food, aimlessly twirling the pasta around and around his fork but never putting it into his mouth.

Looks like his aversion towards food spans across any timeline. The instinct to encourage him to eat makes John bite the inside of his cheek more than once.

“So, John, where is it you study?” Mrs Holmes asks, buttering a roll.

Sherlock’s mother had arrived home not long after Sherlock had showed John where he would be sleeping tonight. The house, if you can even call it that, seems to have endless floors. Sherlock had given him a brief tour, the ground floor consisting of the spacious living room, a long dining room with a huge formal table, a drawing room with a door leading to a sparse area that looked like it was once used as a small ballroom. The house is ancient, passed down the Holmes line for a great many years. John is rather interested in the history of it, but when he had asked Sherlock about it, the tall man had replied he couldn’t remember in a tone of such disinterest that John suspects he had deleted the information a long time ago.

The first floor consists of a stretching hallway with many closed doors. Sherlock had vaguely pointed out his own room, before leading John further down the corridor to a bedroom at the very end.

John’s room is grand and airy, decorated in pastel blues and dark woods. It’s immaculately clean and not for the first time, John had wondered if they had a housekeeper or servants, but he hadn’t met anyone along the way. An old wooden door sitting adjacent to the wardrobe leads to a small ensuite fitted with a shower, much to John’s delight.

The whole building’s interior, regardless of its size, is adorned with cozy, warm furniture and a wide variety of art. John could see Mrs Holmes’ influence in everything, recognising the comforting style from the cottage she and her husband lives in back at home.

When Mr Holmes had called them down for dinner, John had automatically headed for the large dining room, but Sherlock had caught his arm.

“We don’t eat in there,” he had said, tugging John to the back of the house and down some steps leading into a large servants kitchen.

This room in particular had reminded John strongly of the Holmes’ cottage. The entire space seemed happily lived in, the smell of cooking strong in the air and a fairly large but intimate table was situated in the middle of the room.

As they had taken their seats, Sherlock and John opposite one another, the doctor had asked him quietly if they had help with the running of the house.

“There’s Ms Bennett, our housekeeper. She cooks sometimes and helps keep the place clean, but she’s here mainly out of loyalty. Her mother had worked for my grandparents before they had died, but my mother doesn’t approve of servants and nannies. Believes parents should be as such, not trading the responsibility of their children off on someone else. She doesn’t work Tuesdays.”

As if summoned by god himself, Emelia Holmes had entered the kitchen at that precise moment, hands filled with cotton shopping bags and a friendly smile on her face.

John’s always found it rather incredible just how much Sherlock looks like his parents, as if someone had gathered every striking feature in both parties and moulded it into something new. He honestly couldn’t say who Sherlock took after more, but his unique eyes, with their unnatural paleness and cat-like shape, is all Emelia. She’s a little less plump than John knows of her, her hair not the endearing white but a sandy blonde gathered up into a messy bun.

After the initial introductions, they had all sat down to eat. John had glanced at an empty chair, wondering if they were going to wait for anyone else, but everyone had started tucking in without hesitation.

“King’s College London,” John smiles over to her. “I’m hoping to stay on to do my Bachelors there too.”

“Good school,” Mr Holmes nods at him in approval.

“And are you enjoying it there?” Mrs Holmes asks, casting a quick glance at her son, who slumps a little in his chair.

“Very much so, yes. I’m part of the rugby team too, which helps distract me a little from the endless academia,” John grins ruefully.

“That’s smart of you,” Mrs Holmes comments mildly. “It’s healthy to divide your interests so as not to become too overwhelmed or frustrated with singular material.”

It’s a flowery way to state the obvious, John thinks, but when Sherlock rolls his eyes and huffs loudly it’s clear the topic of conversation wasn’t chosen solely for John’s benefit.

“I guess so,” John agrees lightly, opting to not express too much of an opinion on the matter.

“See, Sherlock here-” Emelia starts.

“-Can we not?” Sherlock snaps over her, glaring down at his plate.

Mrs Holmes inflates slightly at his tone, opens her mouth undoubtedly for a scolding but John quickly jumps in.

“I know about the fire situation,” John states delicately enough but in a way that expresses there’s no need for an elaboration. Sherlock’s eyes dart up at him. John changes the subject.

“So, is it just the three of you? Oh no, wait, you mentioned a Mycroft earlier?” John asks, knowing the answer of course but fishing for more information on the Holmes’ family dynamic in this world.

“Mycroft is our eldest,” Mrs Holmes nods. “Unfortunately we don’t see much of him due to his work in London, but he visits when he can.”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock mutters. He jerks suddenly and John has to fight not to grin as Sherlock scowls across at his father who seems to have kicked him under the table.

“Then there’s Eurus, our youngest,” Mrs Holmes continues. She doesn’t say anything else and goes back to eating.

“Where is she, anyway?” Mr Holmes asks the table in general but his eyes are on Sherlock. Emelia turns to look at their son too, in question. Sherlock glances between them and shrugs.

“How should I know?” His voice is too casual to be complete truth, and John wouldn’t have picked up on it if he wasn’t actively observing him.

Mr Holmes asks Sherlock how working at the shop is going and the conversation turns more comfortable as Sherlock begins prattling on about how _useless_ and _mundane_ the whole affair is, his parents humouring him slightly with obviously put-on expressions of sympathy.

* * *

After dinner, John only has a second to thank Sherlock’s parents for the meal before the younger man is dragging John out of the room and upstairs to his room.

Much like his bedroom at Baker Street, Sherlock’s space is an organised accumulation of odd nik naks, books and trinkets. There’s a microscope and chemistry set on his desk under a window that overlooks the garden, and a distinct burn mark on the wooden floor that’s half-covered up with a rug. John spots his violin case propped up in one corner and, most curious of all, is the old wooden upright piano sitting next to it.

“You play?” John asks moving towards it, never really having given thought to Sherlock being able to play multiple instruments having only seen him with a violin under his chin, bow in hand. Seems ridiculous never to have entertained that thought before, considering.

“A bit,” Sherlock replies, plopping down on his bed and resting his feet up high on the wall above him. John considers his upside down head, mystified by the modesty.

“I played clarinet in primary,” John offers. “Wasn’t very good, though.”

“I prefer violin,” Sherlock replies, shifting uncomfortably before tucking a hand underneath himself and retrieving a metal flick lighter. He chucks it towards his pillow.

John wanders aimlessly around Sherlock’s room, taking in his possessions with interest.

“Is this a jar of frogs legs?”

Sherlock tilts his head back to see where John is pointing. “Yep.” He dangles one arm off his bed and reaches under it, producing an old tome and begins flicking through it. Probably another item he stole from his place of work.

John shakes his head in dismay, unsurprised, and moves away from the gruesome sight on the windowsill. He takes a seat on the bed next to Sherlock’s hip, reaching over for the lighter on the pillow to give his hands something to do. He flicks it open and closed a couple of times before noticing an inscription on one side reading, _‘Yours, A. x’_

“Who’s ‘A’?”

Sherlock’s hands still and he glances up at the lighter, following John’s gaze. He sits up fluidly, “Don’t know. It isn’t mine.” Sherlock plucks it from John’s fingers and leans over to place the object in his bedside drawer, closing it again with a snap.

Shifting around, Sherlock turns and rearranges his long limbs so he’s sat cross-legged facing John on the duvet.

“So, the last thing you remember is being in bed in London,” he begins, eyes hooded and brows raised.

“Yup,” John nods, shifting his own body to mirror Sherlock’s position. Takes a moment to relish the fact he can cross his legs without any twinges in his joints.

“And before that?”

“I was in a lecture,” John shrugs, hoping Sherlock doesn’t detect the lie. He usually can but the Sherlock sitting across from him just nods and looks away deep in thought.

“And that was yesterday?”

“Monday, yeah. The seventeenth.”

“Hm.”

“Yeah. Bit weird, eh?”

“Bit,” Sherlock murmurs. Looks back at him. “Do you have any enemies?”

“Do people have enemies?” John asks, can’t stop his lip twitching at the familiarity of this conversation.

“Not _‘normal’_ people, no.” Long fingers flex air quotes, accompany the word.

“And I’m abnormal?” John raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t take it as an insult,” Sherlock smiles lopsided, a bit teasing.

John chuckles indulgently. “Okay, then I won’t.”

Sherlock watches him for a long moment, his smile growing softer, and suddenly he looks incredibly young. Pale eyes glance down at his fingers and he picks at the skin around his thumb, almost shy. John watches him fidgid in wonder.  

“You’re not what I expected,” John murmurs without thinking.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asks absently. He glances up, one dark eyebrow raised. “You don’t know me.”

John takes a deep breath, grins at him. “It’s funny, but it feels like I do.” _Shut up, John._

“You’ve encountered someone similar to me before, then?” Sherlock asks, frowning and looking a bit insulted.

John scoffs. “No, I think without a doubt there’s only one Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock gives another small smile at that, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward slightly. John catches himself smiling back and imitating the movement. Freezes when an odd thought passes through his head. _Are we flirting?_

“You certainly wouldn’t be the first to say that,” Sherlock drawls.

“Nor the last, I’m sure,” John knows this as fact.

Sherlock huffs a breathy laugh, tongue emerging to toy at his right incisor as he tilts his lips in a half-grin. The sight makes John’s breath hitch slightly and he suddenly feels very unstable.

“Toby and Evie seem nice,” John blurts, leaning back abruptly, wanting to change the subject.

Sherlock looks confused for a second before considering the statement. “They’re Victor’s friends,” he shrugs.

“Not yours?” John asks, thinking of how the couple spoke of Sherlock without any hint of animosity.

“They’re nice,” Sherlock allows, looking like he’s eaten something distasteful.

“Yeah, they are,” John agrees. “Don’t you get on well with them?”

“We _‘get on’_ well enough,” Sherlock gripes. “I tend to rub people up the wrong way. Why?”

“I dunno, you seem pretty easy to get along with.” It’s a true enough statement, this Sherlock is decidedly less rude and abrasive than the one John met years ago.

Sherlock nods, appraising John thoughtfully. “You do seem curiously at ease.”

John shrugs. “Like I said, it feels like I know you.” He stops himself from saying anything else, a bit paranoid he’s laying it on a bit thick and that Sherlock will suddenly look at him with realisation and declare, _‘That’s because you do, don’t you!’_

“So, why do you have to do community service in a bookshop? Bit random,” John asks, curious of the reason and if Sherlock will speak openly now Victor isn’t here.

“Why am I doing community service or why am I doing community service in a bookshop?”

“Both.”

“A misunderstanding, and because my brother got involved.”

Not going to speak openly then, it seems.

“You know, that isn’t really an answer,” John points out.  

“I answered your question,” Sherlock shrugs nonchalantly.

“Barely.”

Sherlock just blinks at him rather pointedly.

“Okay, okay,” John raises his hands in surrender. “Obviously a sore spot. I’ll drop it.”

“No, it’s just not any of your business,” Sherlock snaps with unexpected heat.

John stares at him, taken aback. “I didn’t mean-”

“I’m going to bed now,” Sherlock announces abruptly, face passive. He nods towards the door.

John blinks at the sudden dismissal. Wants to argue that it’s not even nine o’clock, wants to demand what the problem is. But this isn’t Sherlock from home, who is used to sparring and arguing with John until one or the other awkwardly apologise or they storm away. To _this_ Sherlock, John is nothing more than a stranger, really. And it would be inappropriate to force his presence on the man even though he knows Sherlock would have done exactly that if the roles were reversed.

“Sure, yeah I’ll just..” John trails off awkwardly, sliding off the bed. He turns back once he reaches the door. “I didn’t mean to pry, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock looks up, hesitates for a moment before nodding his head once in concession.

John closes the door behind himself on his way out.

* * *

 Once John gets to his room, he’s suddenly rather relieved Sherlock kicked him out of his room as the day’s events catch up with him. Talking with Sherlock had distracted him marginally from the situation he’s found himself in, the utter insanity of it.

He feels a little bad that that was probably going to be their last conversation in this world, convinced that once John falls ‘asleep’, he’s most probably going to wake up back in Baker Street with a whining toddler as an alarm clock.

Thinking about Rosie makes John sigh and collapse onto the bed. He misses the little grizzly thing with her big blue eyes and feather soft hair. Kind of misses Sherlock, too. _His_ Sherlock, anyway. Wonders what his take will be on this mad dream. Or hallucination. Whatever. Dreads the thought of the inevitable conversations they’re going to have to battle through come the morning.

Well, John supposes it doesn’t have to be right away. They should probably fix the flat up before opening any cans of worms. One thing at a time..

Moving to lay onto his back, John stares up at the wooden beams on the ceiling. Strange, how different yet the same the younger Sherlock is to the older one at home. His easy acceptance of John is one thing they both share, and it warms the doctor a little inside to realise that. That thought follows up with a recount of the bizarre moment they had shared earlier, the almost flirting. It makes John frown. He recognises he’s a massive flirt himself, always has been. And Sherock can be too, but it’s usually deliberate. An act of manipulation to get information out of certain witnesses. But occasionally, he would turn that distinctive charm onto John too. They would banter playfully the way John does with pretty women. Or there would be lingering glances, or steps into personal space. Soft breaths ghosting over faces. Tongues darting out to wet dry lips.

John groans, covers his face with his hands.

He’s never allowed himself to think of these moments as being anything other than Sherlock simply being utterly unaware of how normal people interact. He pushes these thought forcefully from his mind, reminds himself again that this younger Sherlock is different.

He’s always assumed Sherlock was more gay than straight, even though the man has never fully expressed otherwise. Never expressed anything of that matter at all, really, if you disregard the vague comments during their first dinner together at Angelo’s. But for some reason, John’s never been able to imagine Sherlock with a woman. Not even Irene Adler, regardless of what he’s said in the past. John remembers the awkward way Sherlock has stood, rigid, while Janine was kissing him. The sight then had made John squirm in discomfort, and does now too. No, Sherlock doesn’t suit being with a woman. John couldn’t coherently explain why, he just knows it.

He can’t _really_ imagine Sherlock with a man either, if he’s being honest with himself. But then again, he’s never seen Sherlock kiss a man so who knows what that would look like.

Now John is imagining just that and he rubs his fingers hard into his eye sockets to get rid of the imagine.

Maybe this younger Sherlock, not traumatised by his sister’s actions, is less guarded when it comes to relationships. Maybe this Sherlock _dates_ . Has _sex_. It’s a weird thought.

Suddenly, a soft knock on the door pulls John out of his stupor and he sits up hastily. He pads over to the door and opens it.

Sherlock is standing there, looking a bit uncomfortable and holding a small bundle in both hands.

“I brought you some pajamas,” he begins, not meeting John’s eyes. “They’re Mycroft's. He’s taller than you but broader than me so..” Sherlock shrugs, holding out the bundle in front of him.

“Oh, thanks,” John says in surprise, taking it, not even having given thought to anything so trivial as nightwear.

“There’s a towel and a toothbrush there too,” Sherlock gestures.

“Thank you,” John says again. Doesn’t know what else to say so he just waits as Sherlock hovers with visible uncertainty at the threshold.

After a long moment of hesitation, Sherlock looks up with determination. “I’m sorry for snapping earlier and kicking you out of my room,” he says in a rush, looking like it was physically painful to say the words.

John chuckles lightly at his expression, and Sherlock face turns a little affronted. It isn’t lost on John that this Sherlock has probably apologised more in one night than _his_ Sherlock has done in all the years they’ve known each other.

“You don’t have to apologise. Like you said, I don’t know you. And it is _your_ room. You’re allowed to kick people out of it when they’re being intrusive.”

Sherlock seems surprised by this answer. Then cautiously pleased. He smiles idly.

“Goodnight, John.”

“Night,” John replies, watching him turn and pad down the hall towards his room.

John shuts the door, feeling inexplicably tired all of a sudden.

He heads for the ensuite and slowly gets ready for bed, smiling softly when a fresh plaster tumbles out of the towel when he shakes it open. He washes his face in the sink, peeling off the old plaster Evie had given him and cleaning the gash on his temple again before patting it dry and sticking the new one on.

Mycroft’s pajamas are soft and luxurious, and as Sherlock predicted they fit nicely at John’s shoulders and chest but are a bit long on the arms and legs.  

After brushing his teeth, and giving his boots a quick scrub that he definitely will never admit to Sherlock, John slides into the large bed with a sigh of content. The sheets are soft, the duvet and pillows fluffy and full.

John switches off the bedside lamp, says a silent goodbye to this peculiar world and falls almost immediately to sleep.

* * *

 John’s eyes snap open, whole body tense. It’s still dark, he can’t have been asleep for long. He blinks at the wall, wondering what it was that woke him. Can’t hear anything. He rolls onto his back with a sigh and freezes. Not only is he still quite obviously in one of the spare bedrooms in Musgrave, but there is also a dark figure standing at the end of his bed. Watching him.

“Sherl’k?” John rasps, uneasy but used to this behaviour. John has woken up many times with Sherlock unexplainably in his room. Usually to drag him to a case in the middle of night. Sometimes to nick varies objects. John usually just lets him get on with it, having lost that battle too many times over.

The figure doesn’t respond.

John blinks at it, squinting in the dark and willing his eyes to adjust.

The shadow is smaller than Sherlock, he belated realises. The black halo around its head too long to be Sherlock’s hair.

_Eurus._

John’s breath hitches.

Her young face, cast in shadows, is eerily blank, pale eyes glittering at him in the moonlight. John swallows, it catches in his dry throat. As he opens his mouth to speak, she steps lazily away and silently leaves the room, closing the door with a soft click behind her.

John doesn’t move until she’s gone. Waits a beat. He sits up quickly, reaching over to switch on the lamp beside his bed. The room is unchanged.

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” he whispers to himself, trying to slow his racing heart. As quietly as possible, he crawls out from under the covers and tiptoes to the door. Rests his ear against it in case she’s standing outside. Silence. Reaches out one hand and gently twists the door handle to check it isn’t locked, mind filled with images of fire and panic. It’s unlocked. He peers an eye out into the dark crack. The hall is empty, all lights off.

John rubs a tired hand down his face, closing the door as softly as possible before padding back to the bed, wishing for his gun. He rearranges his pillows so they are all stacked one on top of the other at the head of the mattress before laying back, head elevated and eyes level to the door.

It takes him a long time to fall back asleep, not relaxing until he is marginally confident she won’t come back.

He leaves the lamp on for the rest of the night.

* * *

 A black shadow blocks out the morning light as it descends over his eyelids. John wakes with a strangled gasp. Pale, mismatched eyes are unnervingly close to his face.

“ _Jesus!_ ” John sits up hurriedly, nearly headbutting Sherlock in the process.

“Morning!” Sherlock sings merrily, sitting at the edge of the bed.

“Don’t do that!” John snaps, irritated and agitated.

“Didn’t mean to startle you. Bad dreams?” Sherlock is peering at him with interest, dressed in a pale blue t-shirt and baggy grey jogging bottoms.

John groans, rubs at his eyes as images of cold ice-coloured irises enveloped in darkness fills his vision. “Something like that.”

“Here, I brought you a tea.” Sherlock hands over a mug, sipping at his own. He shifts his bum backwards, turning to face John fully and crossing his legs, leaning back against the wooden footboard.

“Thanks,” John says in wonder, can count on one hand the amount of times Sherlock has made him tea. He usually waits until John or Mrs Hudson passes him a mug.

John absently registers that he’s still in 1996, pushing down a pang of anxiety this thought accompanies. Not a dream, then. Although John was seriously doubting that conclusion long before now. Won’t rule out a vivid hallucination just yet, mainly because the thought that he’s actually gone back in time is not only illogical but utterly _impossible_.

“Remember anything?” Sherlock asks, eyeing him in the similar way he looks at particularly fascinating microscope slides.

John pretends to be thinking hard for a moment. “Nope, don’t think so. It might be too early to tell,” John replies, bringing the cup to his lips.

Sherlock’s eyes flick momentarily down to the cup in John’s hand before returning to his face.

John squints at him, immediately suspicious. Lowers the mug before the hot liquid touches his mouth.

“Have you put something in the tea?” John demands bluntly.

Sherlock looks affronted and surprised by the question, as if he _doesn’t_ annually drug John. Then again, this Sherlock doesn’t, John supposes.

Without verbally replying, Sherlock reaches out a pale hand and takes John’s cup, brings it to his own mouth and takes a pointed sip before passing it back.

“I’m not trying to drug you, John. What would be the point? You’re already in my house.” Sherlock grins, excessively wide and full of teeth.

John huffs a laugh, takes a sip himself. “You’re terrifying,” he states, matter-of-fact.

Sherlock tilts his head, his smile softening in a way that looks far more sinister. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Not at all,” John snorts, chuckling at the very notion.

Sherlock’s smile shifts once more, this time it reaches his eyes. He seems pleased with John’s answer.

“I had a visitor last night,” John states with deliberate carelessness.

Sherlock looks up at him sharply. Cloaks his expression to mildly curious. “Oh?”

“Yeah, think it must have been your sister. I hope so, anyway, or I think maybe we should be calling the police.” John lets out a nervous laugh.

“What did she do?” Sherlock asks, watching him carefully.

“Nothing. She was just standing there, watching me sleep. Was a bit creepy, I won’t lie. Then she just turned and left without saying a thing.”

Sherlock sighs, looking oddly relieved. “Ah yes, she..does that.” He glances towards the door.

“Very odd,” John comments, taking a gulp of tea to hide the extent of his uneasiness. “Any particular reason she likes to stand over people when they sleep?” He asks lightly.

Sherlock scans his face for a long moment, and John is sure he is reading the real fear he is trying so hard to disguise. Although, there’s nothing truly substantial to be concluded with that discovery, as it would seem rather odd if John was perfectly accepting of being woken in the middle of the night by a stranger watching over his unconscious form.

“Probably not,” is all Sherlock says.

They drink in silence, John thinking of the youngest Holmes and her creepy temperament while Sherlock looks to be deep in thought. Probably about the same thing.

“Can I ask you something?” John says after a while.

“Hm?” Sherlock glances up.

John hesitates for only a second, thinking of last night when his prying ended with Sherlock expelling him from his room. “What happened to your eye? It’s anisocoria, right?”

Sherlock reaches up with his left hand and touches the delicate skin of his eye as if he can feel the damage in the flesh around it. “Yes. When I was nine, I accidentally administered out-of-date eyedrops when I irritated the surface during an experiment with smoke. The contaminated saline paralysed the muscles of my iris.”

“Ouch,” John winces in sympathy.

“I can’t remember the pain of it now, but I got a nasty infection and the doctors were convinced I would lose all sight in that eye. But, lo and behold, it caused no lasting damage to my vision. Except an irritatingly inconvenient sensitivity to light. And an apparent resemblance to David Bowie,” Sherlock shrugs, taking a sip.

John smiles, rather astonished Sherlock even knows who Bowie is considering he doesn’t ever seem to know who the current prime minister is. “Not necessarily a bad thing,” he comments.

“If you like,” Sherlock shrugs again indifferently, making John wonder if actually, Sherlock doesn’t know who the singer is at all but rather that enough people have pointed out the similarity for him to remember the name.   

When they’ve finished their tea, Sherlock stretches out on John’s bed while the older man has a quick shower in the ensuite. Wrapping the towel around his waist, John looks at the pile of clothes from yesterday with a grimace. His jeans are muddy, the legs a bit stiff where it’s hardened overnight, and his jumper isn’t much better. Not to mention putting on yesterday’s pants always makes John feel rather disgusting. With a sigh, he pulls the pajama bottoms on again, deciding to go commando and ask Sherlock if he could use the washing machine. He goes to pull the soiled jumper over his head before simply dumping it back on the floor and heading back into the bedroom.

Sherlock is still laying sprawled, this time with his book held open above his face. He must of nipped back to his room while John was in the shower.

“Hey, I don’t suppose-” John stops when Sherlock waves a lazy hand towards another pile of clothing next to his head without looking up.

“Oh. Cheers, you’re a lifesaver.”

Sherlock doesn’t look away from his book until John is standing right next to him, forced to lean over his body to grab the bundle where is sits on the other side of the bed. John pauses momentarily as Sherlock runs an utterly shameless eye over his chest, and feels himself flushing slightly in response. He escapes back to the bathroom.

The pile consists of a clean pair of pants and socks, thank god, a white t-shirt that must be Sherlock’s because it’s a little tight, and a pair of jeans. He has no idea who they belong to, as they fit John almost perfectly. John carries his dirty clothes back out into the room with him and dumps them on his pillow.

“Can I be a pain and ask to use your washing machine?”

“Of course.” Sherlock sits up and looks John up and down again. John crosses his arms over his chest, scowling.

“What?”

“They fit,” Sherlock declares, pleased.

“Oh, right. Yeah. I guess. Thanks again.”

Sherlock shrugs away his thanks, picks up John’s pile of dirty clothes and heads out of the room. John glances back at his book left on the mattress, shrugs and follows.

Mrs Holmes is the in kitchen, fussing around making tea. John grins when he spots Victor sitting at the table, arm sprawled across the surface with his forehead cradled in the crook of his elbow.

“Honestly, I don’t know why you young people feel the need to get yourselves into such a state everytime you go out,” Mrs Holmes is tutting, placing a mug next to Victor’s hand.

A muffled groan is the only reply.

“Good morning, Victor!” Sherlock announces loudly and the boy’s other arm comes up to wrap around his skull with a grunt.

“Sherlock!” Emelia scolds, patting the auburn head gently as she passes it.

Sherlock smirks, walking over to his mother and dumping John’s dirty pile into her arms without a word.

“What’s this, then?” She looks down at the pile, frowning.

Mortified, John rushes over to take it back from her. “Jesus, Sherlock. Sorry, Mrs Holmes.”

“Oh, are they yours, John?” She asks, deftly plucking the bundle back out of John’s hands when he shoots a glare over his shoulder at her son, who’s plopped down opposite Victor and has stolen his untouched tea.

“No, it’s-I mean, yes it is mine but-”

“I’ll pop it in the machine for you,” she smiles, heading over to the door leading into a small utility room.

When she’s gone, John makes his way over to the table, taking a seat at the head and giving Sherlock a disapproving look. Sherlock blinks back at him, a picture of innocence. John reaches over and snatches the cup of tea in Sherlock’s hands, taking a large quick gulp when the younger tries to wrestle it back and causing some to slosh onto the table.

“That better not be tea in my hair,” Victor grumbles into the table.

“Good night, then?” John asks, relenting and allowing Sherlock to reclaim the mug, who gives him a disgustingly smug look. “Yeah, but now who’s going to get the blame for the mess?” John murmurs quietly to him, pointing with one finger to the puddle on the table and then the cup grasped in pale hands. Sherlock gives him an exaggerated look of betrayal, then deposits the mug back down next to Victor’s hand.

John scoffs and shakes his head.

“Yes, but now I’m dying,” comes the faint response next to John.

“Poor you,” Sherlock says without sympathy.

Victor finally raises his head to glare over at him. He really does look like death. Tanned skin now a sickly pale and the whites of his eyes are bloodshot.

“You look horrendous,” Sherlock feels the need to point out.

Victor ignores him, sitting up fully and reaching for the half-filled mug. He takes two sips before he registers the mess on the table and scowls suspiciously at Sherlock.

“How’s your head, John? Any memories come back, yet?” Victor asks, turning in his seat to address him.

“Afraid not,” John slumps in his chair.

“Bad luck. And I’m afraid that’s only going to get worse,” Victor grimaces.

“What do you mean?”

“Trains are still on strike. _Apparently_ they think they deserve even _more_ money than they originally asked for, and now they might not be up and running until the end of the week. It’s ridiculous, I don’t know how anyone is getting to work!”

“Substitute buses,” Sherlock replies promptly, tracing one lithe index finger in the spilt tea to make a pattern.

“Oh! That’s a thought! Maybe we could get you onto one of those?” Victor gives John a hopeful smile.

John nods and smiles back with a low, “Hopefully,” as he thinks rapidly for an excuse on why that won’t work. There’s not much point heading back to London, John has no idea when he’s going to appear back in his own time and considering he’s lived through university once already, he would much rather stay here with Sherlock.

“We’ll have a look at the times,” Victor promises.

“There’s no point,” Sherlock says airly. They both turn to look at him. “There is only one bus to London a day and it leaves at 7am. You’ve missed it.”

There’s a pause where John pretends to look disappointed by this news and Victor gives Sherlock an oddly calculating look. “Did you know that yesterday?”

Sherlock glances quickly at John, before looking back to his friend. “No.”

Victor’s eyes narrow, but before he can say anything else Mrs Holmes enters the room again and immediately demands to know what’s happened to her table. When there’s only a reply of guilty silence, she throws a dish cloth at Sherlock and tells him to mop up the mess.

When she turns around again to grab some bread, he flings the cloth at Victor’s face where it lands with a wet slap.

John laughs, so Victor chucks it at him instead and John catches it mid-air. Sherlock grins at him and soon they are throwing the soiled material around the table until Mrs Holmes comes over and snatches it out of Victor’s hands with an impatient huff. She places a full toast rack in the middle of the table along with a stack of plates. Not long after, a butter dish, various jam jars and a plate of ham and cheese follows suit. The older woman doesn’t join them at the table, apparently already have eaten, and hums tunelessly as she begins washing up in the sink.

Everyone expresses their thanks, digging in with vigor.

Victor details his night out as they eat, claiming Jules was well behaved and only threw up once. He then vents for a while about public indecency, describing how inappropriate Toby and Evie’s _‘grinding’_ was and exclaiming how, _‘It’s got so much worse, Sherlock,’_ in despair. Sherlock simply raises his eyebrows at this, quite obviously feigning interest and making John snigger silently.

“And what time did you get in last night, young lady?” Mrs Holmes suddenly asks, her back still turned to the room.

John snaps his head towards the door, where Eurus is entering with a mild expression. John quickly glances back to Sherlock, trying to gauge his reaction. Sherlock looks round at her in a relaxed manner before turning back to his plate with no expression. She slowly pads into the room and over to her brother’s chair, standing behind him. With slow movements, she raises her left hand and runs it up into his hair, carding slender fingers through the curls. Sherlock doesn’t react, takes a bite of toast.

“Not too late,” the girl replies smoothly to her mother's back. A second later she drops her hand and moves around the table over to Victor, brushing her hands at him in a ‘shooing’ motion until he rolls his eyes and slides into the chair next to him, shoulders a bit hunched. She takes Victor’s vacated seat and turns to John deliberately with those unnerving pale eyes, almost identical to Sherlock’s.

“You must be John,” she smiles.

“You must be Eurus,” John quips back, wondering who told her about him and extending a polite hand for her to shake, silently hoping his palm is dry. She takes his hand in a firm grip, glances down at it after a second and looks back up at him through dark lashes, a lazy smirk stretching across her face. John takes his hand back as casually as he can.

“And where did you go?” Mrs Holmes asks, appearing at the table with another plate which she places in front of her daughter.

Eurus looks away from John, to his relief, her smirk transforming into a mild smile as she looks up at her mother. “Nowhere in particular.”

Her mother sends her a mildly disapproving look at the ambiguous answer, but drops the subject.

“What are you boys up to today then?” Mrs Holmes asks, wiping her hands on a clean dish cloth before patting at her hair.

“I thought I would show John around the town while Sherlock’s at the shop, if you fancy it?” Victor turns to John in question.

John darts a quick peek at Sherlock, who seems to be distractedly in a silent conversation with his sister.

It’s incredibly disconcerting, sitting in the same room as a murderer and her victim. John forces himself to unclench his jaw as he glances between them, sending a quick mental reminder that the eighteen year old _isn’t_ a murderer in this timeline.

That he knows of, anyway. He forcibly pushes that thought aside.

“Sounds good,” John nods back at Victor.

“Maybe you could take Eurus?” Mrs Holmes supplies, watching her children.

Victor can’t stop a quick grimace from twisting his features but he covers it up swiftly with a strained smile and looks over to the siblings.

Eurus is now giving Sherlock a dark look while he gazes impassively back at her. She turns away in disgust and fixes an overly-friendly grin to Victor who pales considerably.

“No thank you, _Vic,_ I’m afraid I have something to be getting on with today.”

Victor lets out a not-so-subtle sigh of relief. Eurus picks up a knife and starts buttering a slice of toast with deliberate care.

Sherlock stands abruptly and stretches, arms raised above his head. “Better get ready for work then,” he says amicably. “Come along, John. I’ll see if I can locate you a coat to borrow.”

Victor gives Sherlock a bit of a desperate look and his friend actively ignores it, heading towards the door.

John jumps up to follow, grateful to be leaving the room.

“Thank you for breakfast, Mrs Holmes,” John waves over to her. She smiles in reply and nods that its no trouble.

As John leaves the table, he can’t help but notice the way Eurus’ eyes follow her brother’s retreating back.

She shifts them over to John, assessing, as he walks away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who commented, I get such a kick hearing from you all! 
> 
> Again; any concerns or questions you may have, I have a link in my bio for my tumblr where I am more than happy to answer any query or elaborate on any tag (without giving too much away) so as not to spoil anything in the comments <3 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, it was giving me grief for a while!

The sun is high and scorching, the sky a rare blanket of blue. A pleasant breeze caresses their faces as they walk along the road and John can’t stop glancing over at Sherlock because the man is wearing dungarees. 

_ Dungarees.  _

Dungarees and a yellow and white striped t-shirt and John hasn’t been able to form a coherent sentence all morning, the sight utterly baffling. He’s seen Sherlock in casual clothes before, of course he has, for cases or when he’s flouncing around the flat in his pajamas. But this truly is surreal. 

Sherlock, feeling his eyes, looks over with a questioning look and John pretends to be looking over his yellow shoulder at a passing couple. 

“The others said they’d be at the lake today,” Victor announces, sidestepping a crack in the pavement. “If you fancied going?” He looks at John.

“Sounds good,” John smiles and peeks at Sherlock again who looks steadfastly ahead. 

Victor also keeps giving Sherlock small side-glances every now and then, but not because of his attire John is certain, but rather as if he expects Sherlock to run off at any given moment. John can’t blame him, regardless of what Sherlock said at breakfast John also remembers Sherlock mouthing to him the night before how he has no plans to go to work today. 

And as predicted, once they arrive at the bookshop, Sherlock continues striding past with zero hesitation. Victor stops on the pavement, hands on his hips.

“Sherlock,” he calls.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder. “Hm?”

Victor nods his head towards the door. 

Sherlock blinks at him, turns and continues on his way.

“Oi, you have to go!” Victor says exasperated, jogging to keep up with his friend’s long legs. “You’ll get in trouble!”

“I’m already in trouble. Hence why I have to work there.”

“Well, you’ll get into even  _ more  _ trouble if you don’t go.”

“Probably.”

Victor groans in frustration, looks at John pleadingly. John shrugs, not particularly concerned over Sherlock’s community service. 

“Oh for…” Victor trails off, recognising a battle lost. “Fine, on your head be it.” He shakes his head, dark red hair lolling into his eyes. 

Once they pass the big iron gates at the entrance of the park, Sherlock heads straight over to the tree John found himself under the day before. No one questions how Sherlock knows exactly which one it is, just watches him in silence as he circles the area, crouching down to inspect the grass. Used to this, both John and Victor leave him to it and talk idly amongst themselves. 

“I suppose that’s the perks of being an only child,” Victor is saying as Sherlock begins climbing up the tree with ease. “A certain amount of freedom to follow my own path and interests.”

“I thought it would be the other way round,” John replies absently, watching Sherlock swing from branch to branch like a monkey.

“Also true, I guess. Maybe it just depends on the parents. My dad in particular has always been adamant that I should just do whatever I want.”

Sherlock drops down between them into a crouch before standing tall with a loud exhale.

“Find anything?” Victor asks mildly, reaching up with a tanned hand and picking a leaf out of Sherlock’s curls. 

“Nothing,” he sighs, frustrated. 

“Never mind. Didn’t think you would, to be honest,” Victor admits and jerks his head to the side before walking back towards the path.

“We should have come here yesterday. The area has been tampered with too much now,” Sherlock grumbles as he and John follow.

“It isn’t a crime scene, Sherlock,” Victor laughs. 

“Isn’t it? Didn’t you say John was mugged?” Sherlock asks importantly. 

Victor pauses. Looks over at John in concern. “I suppose you’re right. We really should have gone to the police.”

“It’s fine,” John says hurriedly. “I don’t think I had much on me anyway. I doubt anything would come of it.”

Victor is looking at him doubtedly. 

“John’s right. The police are all useless,” Sherlock declares.  

Victor rolls his eyes in a manner that suggests he’s heard this all before.

They walk down the dusty path and through a small cluster of tall trees that opens up to a bank overlooking a glittering lake. It’s more of a big pond really, but the water is relatively clear and a few children are splashing in the water on the other side while their parents keep a keen eye. Toby and Evie are sat together on a patchwork quilt near the waterside, shoes off and basking in the sunlight. Jules, standing in the water with his jeans rolled up to his shins, is busy collecting pebbles and spots them first. He waves them over with a grin.

“Alright guys?” Toby smiles up at them, head in Evie’s lap. “How’s the head, John?”

“Not bad,” John nods, touching the fresh plaster he had stuck over the gash that morning. 

“Victor!” Jules calls from the water. “Skimming competition? These losers won’t have any fun!” 

Evie scoffs and Victor winks at them, heading over to his friend after kicking his own shoes off. 

“Honestly, you’d think he wasn’t up all night puking his guts up,” Evie chuckles as John plops down on the blanket next to them. Sherlock sprawls on the grass a foot away, resting his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. 

John tilts his own head up to meet the rays. “You two feeling rough this morning? Victor certainly was.”

“Nah, we didn’t drink that much,” Toby replies with a rueful laugh.

They rest together for a while, chatting lazily, and John finds himself rather charmed by the gang. He’s attracted by their easy companionship and the way they have accepted him so seamlessly into their small group. If John had had the choice, he would have placed young Sherlock with these exact people. Laidback, accepting. The type who would take Sherlock as he is, take the time to understand him and his eccentricities. Unfortunately, while  _ this  _ Sherlock seems to have been lucky enough to find people like that, John is under the impression that Sherlock from home either didn’t find anyone at all in his youth or only surrounded himself with unsavory characters. His defensiveness and quick tongue when they had met was all self-preservation, John sees that now. Well, he saw that at the time, too, but that didn’t stop John from finding him endlessly frustrating. John has seen the mannerisms in other people, of course, it’s not uncommon. A result of ridicule and isolation. Sherlock, now older and after spending so long in the company of those who genuinely care about him, has toned down the habit quite a bit. Although, that could also simply be a consequence of guilt.  

When Victor strolls over and trickles water onto Sherlock’s upturned face, the dark haired teen jumps up and begins dragging his friend over to the lakeside. Victor laughs joyishly and fights his grip as Sherlock pushes him further and further towards the water. Toby raises his head to watch, laughing along with his girlfriend, as Victor manages to wrestle away and kicks a wave of water over Sherlock. 

John stares, smiling softly, as he watches his old but younger friend yell and jump onto Victor’s back, causing the other boy to buckle and land knee-first into the water. It’s a remarkable sight, watching his friend laugh and play like any other nineteen year old with such reckless abandon, jovial and untroubled. John wonders if  _ his  _ Sherlock ever had this when he was a teenager. Knows Sherlock did when we was small, John has seen the videos, but that was before Victor had been killed. Mycroft had mentioned that Sherlock was a sensitive and carefree child before Eurus had stolen something from within his heart. And John can see it now, so painfully clear, just what that had cost. Sherlock missed out on this, on friends and summer days full of laughter and playfighting. On a world where he had no traumas and agonising memories. The terror of building any attachment only for it to be ripped away again created a cold shell of a man. And John suddenly aches for him.

He pushes it aside. Regardless, Sherlock has made some terrible choices and has dished out his own recipe of trauma onto others. Not quite the same as his sister, no, but it still shouldn’t be excused. But it’s hard to stay angry when presented with Sherlock’s large white grin, hair dripping water into his eyes as it lies flat against his forehead. 

John watches on, a cocktail of emotion.

Victor has somehow made it back onto the bank, Sherlock still clinging to his back with his long limbs hooked under him. Victor drops onto the grass and rolls over, dislodging his friend and Sherlock grapples with him as they both try to roll each other towards the water again.

Jules splashes over and jumps in on the wrestling match, making the two other boys cry out as his soaked clothing pours cold water over their bodies. 

Almost immediately, Sherlock rolls out from under them and heads back up the bank, leaving the two tussling boys at it. He plops back down next to John, stretching out to allow the warm sun to dry his clothes, eyes closed once more. 

John looks down at his flushed, sun kissed face. At the faint sprinkling of freckles that have appeared over the bridge of his nose. At the plump mouth and sharp angle of his cheekbones. A water droplet is sliding down his face, dipping under his chin and continuing it’s journey down the long pale throat. 

John doesn’t notice when Sherlock opens his eyes, but suddenly they are staring at each other and Sherlock’s lips quirk into a small smirk. John swallows and looks away.

“Look! A frog!” Evie suddenly squeals in delight, pointing a couple of feet away to her left. Toby cranes his neck to follow her finger and Victor appears suddenly, crouching down near the little green thing.

“Careful,” Jules says loudly as he ambles over. “Don’t let Billy near it.” He laughs a bit nastily as everyone visibly tenses. 

John frowns, glancing over them all before landing on Sherlock who is giving Jules a stoney look.

“Leave off, Jules,” Victor laughs nervously and goes to sit down next to Sherlock. 

This seems to annoy the blonde boy and his face twists unattractively, spitting with sudden viciousness, “Why? He’d only kill it, right  _ Billy _ ?” 

“Jules.” The warning comes from Toby, who has sat up and is giving the boy a dark look.

Jules ignores him. “It’s what you do though, isn’t it? Just like-” 

Without any warning, as his face moments before was a mask of cold indifference, Sherlock jumps up and lunges for Jules. Victor leaps up too, reaching for his friend so quickly he must have been expecting this reaction, and holds him back. John scrambles to his feet as well, startled by the sudden aggression. He grabs Sherlock’s other arm but Victor shoves him away with a warning look that confuses John. Victor shakes his head at him.

“Oh let him hit me, Vic, I know he wants to!” Jules gibes, but he doesn’t move any closer to them as Sherlock struggles in Victor’s grip, face furious.

“Jules, stop it!” Evie cries. 

Sherlock thrashes in Victor’s arms, eyes wild and teeth bared.  

“Let him get arrested,  _ again. _ ” 

Sherlock manages to break free and charges at Jules, fist raised. There’s an awful moment where they all cringe, waiting for the hit. 

It doesn’t come, however, as John flies at Sherlock, seizes his biceps in a punishing hold and twists him away from the taunting boy.

Acting on pure instinct, he grabs Sherlock’s face with both hands and forces his head round to face him. “Stop.” John commands.

Sherlock tries to twist away again, failing to jerk his head out of John’s strong grasp. 

“Look at me. Come on, he’s not worth it.” John forces Sherlock to make eye contact. He continues, softer, “You know he’s not. Stop it, now.” Sherlock stares at him, panting and face flushed in anger, eyes wide and manic. John has seen this expression before, not frequently but enough times to understand what Sherlock can be capable of if left to erupt. “Breathe,” John whispers, low enough no one else can hear. 

As if physically painful, after a long moment, Sherlock starts mimicking John’s steady breathing. Ever so slowly, Sherlock’s shoulders begin to relax. The fire in his eyes, never leaving John’s face, extinguishes gradually. And then he is slumping. He blinks at John with a curious expression, almost lost.

“Alright?” John asks softly, sliding his hands down soft cheeks to grip Sherlock’s boney shoulders.

Sherlock nods jerkily. 

After a minute more, the pale green eyes glance around and Sherlock takes note of where he is. Everyone is staring. 

Embarrassed, Sherlock shrugs John’s hands off him and he takes a step away, turning his back on them. John watches him warily, still rattled by Sherlock’s intense flare of fury. His friend has always been fairly neurotic, jumping from irritation to contentment in the space of a second. From lethargy to mania. The smallest thing can trigger a brattish tantrum from the man, but John has never seen him fly off the handle with such honest aggression for anything  _ truly  _ trivial. Sure, boredom has been known to make Sherlock shoot holes in the walls, and even throw a plate or two, but John’s fairly confident that’s usually an attention thing. Like when a cat pushes a glass off a table. Or a baby cries when placed in a cot. Sherlock is more than capable of fighting the majority of his battles verbally, throwing out blunt observation with wit and eloquence in such a dismissive manner that makes most people shrink away. 

The lack of control in  _ this  _ Sherlock could be down completely to age, John rationalises. Imagines even Sherlock from home got himself into a great many fights as an adolescence. Especially Sherlock from home, come to think of it. 

“Told you he was a psycho,” Jules is muttering. Sherlock tenses again. 

“Oh, fuck off Jules!” Toby shouts. 

Sherlock spins around, face back to an impassive mask. “You’re hardly one to talk, didn’t your-”

“Sherlock, shut up!” Victor shouts suddenly, angry and desperate. 

Toby storms upright and grabs Jules’ arm, dragging him away across the bank where a few families quickly look away and pretend they hadn’t been observing the altercation. Evie follows them, shoving at Jule’s back and shouting at him, “Why are you such a prick!?” 

When John turns back, Sherlock is glaring at Victor viciously. He storms away in the opposite direction. John moves to follow but Victor grabs his arm in one hand to halt him. 

“How did you do that?” Victor asks quietly.

“Do what?” John can’t help but snap, Sherlock’s anger inflating his own.

“Calm him down like that?” 

John pauses. “Instinct.” 

Victor looks unconvinced. 

John gives Victor a bit of a disgusted look, isn’t completely sure why. Elaborates, “I have a friend at home, that helps calm him down too.” John pulls his arm out of the boy’s grip and storms up the grass quickly towards Sherlock’s retreating form. After a moment, Victor follows.

* * *

 

Sherlock hadn’t managed to get very far before John had caught up with him. John had tentatively asked if he was okay, which in reply Sherlock had nodded curtly and avoided his eyes. Then Victor had joined them, panting slightly, and nothing else was said.

They end up in a pub not far away from the park and take seat in a booth, an uncomfortable silence filling the space between them. Sherlock is staring down at his hands, knuckles white as his fingers clench together on the table to make one large fist. 

Victor keeps glancing between John and Sherlock, a small furrow between his brows.

“Well,” John tries. Opens and closes his mouth a few times. Can’t think of anything to say. 

After a moment, Victor suddenly jumps up and darts over to the door. John is momentarily confused until he spots the backs of Evie and Toby passing the window, and he watches as Victor pokes his head out and calls to them. The turn and follow him back inside.

Once Evie and Victor are seated, Toby lets out a large exhale and announces he’ll get a round in. “Bit early for it, I know, but I think we could all use one.” The dark skinned boy gives Sherlock a small look of concern as he says this. 

“Just a tap water for me please,” Victor mutters, grimacing. 

As Toby leaves, Sherlock stands up and heads towards the toilets without a word. 

“We sent Jules home,” Evie murmurs as soon as Sherlock is out of earshot. “Gave him a good bollocking while we were at it. I don’t know why he has to rile Sherlock up like that.” She sighs.

“He’s jealous,” John summerises. They both turn to look at him. “Of you and Sherlock.” John aims this at Victor who frowns and glances towards Sherlock’s empty chair. 

“Makes sense,” Evie mutters, resting her head on her hand.

“What did he mean when he said it’s what Sherlock ‘does’? With the frog?” John asks, a bit hesitant.

Victor looks at him sharply.

“Sherlock’s got a bit of a ‘reputation’-” Evie begins.

“Evie!” Victor snaps.

“Oh what, Victor? We all know it’s bullshit!” She snaps back.

“Whats this?” John prompts, pointedly not look at Victor.

Evie continues without hesitation, “It’s why he has to do community service. That and the fires. He broke into a neighbours house and stole their dog. Mrs Jones was it?” She asks Victor, who simply glares back before crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back in his chair, removing himself from the conversation. “People say he intended to kill it, you know?”

“He didn’t do anything!” Victor snaps.

“I know Victor, I know,” Evie says,  her voice softening. She turns back to John. “Two days later, Sherlock turns up at her house with said dog, completely unharmed, apologises and just gives it back to her.” She shrugs, glances up as Toby approaches and smiles at him. “Apparently, dead animals used to turn up all the time at the Holmes’ place when he was younger. Around in the grounds and in his room. Mice and squirrels, that kind of thing. Think once there was a cat too. So now, people just assume..” She trails off, shrugging again. 

John is frowning. Feels like he’s missing something here. The story with the dog just doesn’t make sense. Sherlock, while partial to cutting up dead animals (and people for that matter), would never purposefully kill an animal. Hurt an animal, even. John has a memory, seeming so long ago now, of Sherlock with Toby The Dog. Crouching down in front of him, burying his face into his fur. Petting him gently and praising the animal even after the he had run them all around London, towards nothing at all. Soft and tender, the same way he handles Rosie. With delicate hands and comforting words. 

Would  _ this  _ Sherlock be much different? He can’t really imagine it. 

Toby slides a pint in front of John with a small smile, hands one to Evie who takes a large gulp. Victor looks at their glasses with a mildly nauseated look and sips at his water.  

Sherlock appears again, looking much more relaxed and sits down next to Victor. John notices that the curls of his fringe are a little damp at the ends, as if he has just splashed water over his face.  

“Thank you, Toby,” Sherlock nods over to the boy as he takes a large gulp of beer. His mismatched eyes flick over to John, who’s sitting opposite, and a light flush appears high on his cheekbones before he looks away. John wonders if he’s thinking of his momentary lapse of control, and the steps John took to calm him down. 

_ Feels like I know you.  _

Toby is giving Sherlock a fond look, and John realises he really likes this boy. 

Talk turns to the night before, Victor trying and failing to embarrass the couple on their overzealous displays of affection. No one mentions Jules, and soon John stops thinking about the incident all together. 

When pint glasses are empty and relaxed laughter is back in full swing, Sherlock declares he’ll get in another round. A silent thank you to the group, John assumes. 

Just before he stands, Sherlock nudges John’s foot under the table with his own. John looks up, questioning. Sherlock tilts his head towards the bar in a subtle motion.

“I’ll help you carry,” John says, taking the hint, and they both leave the table. 

“Five pints of peroni, please,” Sherlock orders as they lean against the bar.

“I feel bad, everyone buying me-”

“What you did back there,” Sherlock interrupts in a rush. “That was...it was. Good.” He’s looking a little awkward, the admittance sour on his tongue, but his eyes are unwaveringly locked onto John’s.

“Don’t mention it,” John says quietly. He quirks his lips. “You were right, Jules really is a moron.”

Sherlock chuckles a little, turning to the barman to hand over a couple of notes. “He’s just jealous,” he mutters.

John grins. “Obvious.” 

Sherlock turns back to him, and now he has that soft smile on his face again from this morning. It makes his eyes sparkle and dimples appear on his cheeks, and John has had it directed his way many times by  _ his  _ Sherlock and it always gives him a thrill that he never sees it aimed at anyone else. Gives him a petty thrill now that he hasn’t seen this younger version of it directed at Victor yet, either. 

_ Oh, stop it man. _

“My lawyer probably wouldn’t have been particularly sympathetic if I had ended up in front of the court again,” Sherlock points out in a mild tone.

“No, probably not. Especially when you really shouldn’t have been in the park in the first place.” 

Sherlock quirks his lips. “This is true.” 

John backtracks, gives Sherlock a look of disbelief. “You have your own lawyer?” 

Sherlock glances at the ceiling and says casually on an exhale, “I.. have been known to get arrested on a  _ fairly _ regular basis.” He shakes his head in mock regret.

John huffs a laugh. “Misfit.” 

Sherlock flashes his teeth in a quick grin. “A certainly milder term than my parents use.” 

“Of that, I have no doubt,” John smirks. “I bet you drive them crazy.”

Sherlock shrugs and looks away, face pensive. “I could be worse.”  

The barman leans between them and hands Sherlock his change before moving down the bar to serve someone else. They both balance the glasses in their hands and make their way back to the table. 

“I’m only drinking water,” Victor complains when Sherlock places a pint in front of him. The dark haired man huffs and pushes the beer towards Toby and Evie instead, who grin up at him in delight.

After a while John realises he is rather enjoying himself, as Victor starts ratting Sherlock out on his bunking off work to the others with a grin, and Sherlock dips the tips of his fingers into his beer before flicking the droplets at his friend’s face. It’s been a long time since John could justify having a liquid lunch with the sole excuse being that he’s in his twenties. 

Suddenly Sherlock tenses, his eyes looking up past John’s shoulder towards the door of the pub.

“Shit,” he mutters, grabbing a menu and hiding his face behind it, slumping low into his chair.  

John glances behind himself with a frown and spots a man who looks to be in his mid-twenties saunter in and over to the bar. He’s tall and muscular, with dark cropped hair and even darker eyes. Almost black. He carries an air of intimidation and self-assurance around him that makes people automatically step out of his way. As if feeling John’s eyes, he looks over and assesses the table. His beady eyes land on the upright menu and narrow considerably. John inwardly grimaces at his lack of tact and turns around again, knowing it’s too late.

Soon enough, the stranger is leaning against their table, staring pointedly at the upright menu.

“Sherlock,” the man smiles widely, teeth sharp and eyes hard. 

Everyone has frozen, watching as Sherlock peeks over the menu before he lowers it fluidly and adopts a look of pleasant surprise. “Alex! What a surprise, I was wondering when-”

Suddenly, Sherlock’s head is slammed down onto the table next to his drink, a burly forearm pinning the back of his long neck to the wood while the man’s other hand grips roughly into his hair. 

“Woah, woah!” John shouts, standing up with Victor who looks stricken. Evie lets out a little scream and Toby grabs her arms, hauling her out of reach.  

“Nice to see you, too,” Sherlock gasps from below them. 

“Alex! What the fu-” Victor shouts, reaching for the man’s arms.

“Shut up,” Alex snaps at him, jerking Sherlock’s head threateningly and Victor’s hands fall away before he can touch.

The man leans down towards Sherlock’s ear. “I know what you did,” he mutters dangerously.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock rasps conversationally, as if discussing the weather and not like he’s being suffocated. 

The large man pulls Sherlock’s head back by his hair and slams his cheek back down brutally. Sherlock grunts. John’s hands twitch.

“Don’t play games with me, Holmes. I want it back.” 

Sherlock’s eyes roll around to look at the face looming above him. He grins, impish. John mutters a curse and flinches as Sherlock’s head is slammed back onto the table again and the pale eyes go a bit crossed eyed.

“Right, yeah. Okay. I think that’s enough now,” John decides and reaches for the man’s thick wrists, twists them outwards expertly, tugs hard and soon the man is on his knees and gasping in pain. He tries to pull away and John twists harder until he stops struggling. “I wouldn’t, mate. You don’t want to dislocate anything, now do you?” John asks calmly.

“Fuck! Get off me!” the large man cries, head dipping low before turning his face upwards to glare hatefully at John.

“I will. In a moment. Then you will leave, okay?” John smiles. 

“Oi, I’ll have none of that in here!” The barman’s shout across the room goes unnoticed. 

Black eyes turn towards Sherlock, who’s standing up now with a hand on the back of his neck and his gaze fixed onto John.

John tugs a little on the wrists until the man gasps again and looks away from the brunette. 

“Fine, fine!” He spits. John raises his eyebrows at him. “Okay! I said okay!” 

John lets him go. 

The man scrambles to his feet, watching John warily. He sends a wildly furious look towards Sherlock again, and when John tenses he promptly turns and storms away from the table. He spins back once he’s a safe distance away.

“I want it back, Sherlock. And I  _ will  _ get it back,” he says with low promise and then shoves himself out of the pub, many wide eyes following him.

“Jesus christ, what the fuck was that!?” Toby cries, holding his arms securely around Evie who is staring at John.

In fact, everyone is staring at John. A mixture of awe and caution. John glances around them, inwardly sighing. 

“Well,” he starts awkwardly. Sits back down slowly and takes a gulp of beer. “He wasn’t very friendly.” 

Sherlock lets out a bark of laughter and sits down opposite him. John turns to meet bright eyes and raises his eyebrows at Sherlock, a bit accusingly. Seems Sherlock attracts trouble in anytime and everywhere he goes. John can’t say he’s surprised. 

“Sherlock,” Victor says in a deadly tone. His friend continues watching John. “Sherlock!” Victor shouts suddenly and the pale eyes flick over to him, face expressionless. 

Victor is standing frozen, fists clenched. “What the hell was that about?” he demands. 

Sherlock takes a delicate sip of beer and shrugs. “The man’s deranged, who can ever know what he’s blabbering about?” 

“What did you take from him?” Victor growls, unmoving. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Nothing.”

“You know what type of man he is!” Victor hollars. Glances up towards the bar as a loud cough comes from the barman. He lowers his voice and whispers ferociously, “What are you doing, messing around with someone like that? You remember what he was like at school!?” 

“You went to school with that brute?” Evie asks, a bit shaken.

“Yes. Although he was a few years above, obviously,” Sherlock replies calmly. 

“What have you got yourself into Sherlock?” Victor hisses. 

“Sit down, Victor, you’re causing a scene,” Sherlock drawls instead and his friend splutters in response.

“ _ I’m  _ causing a scene!?” 

“Victor-” Toby starts tentatively.

“Sherlock, can I have a word?” Victor interrupts, voice deliberately pleasant. He raises his eyebrows.

Sherlock waves both hands towards him, as if saying  _ ‘The floor is yours’. _

“Outside,” Victor growls through clenched teeth. 

Sherlock lets out a dramatic sigh, hauls himself up from his seat and strolls towards the door. Victor, however, grabs his arm and yanks him in the opposite direction towards the back doors where a sign reads ‘Beer Garden’. 

John watches as Sherlock savagely wrenches his arm out of Victor’s grip just as the door is closing behind them.

“Jesus, here we go,” Toby mutters and promptly downs the rest of his pint.   

“What?” John asks, noticing the couple both looking grim.

“They’re like brothers, yeah? So when they fight, they  _ fight _ ,” Evie grumbles.

“Should someone go out there?” John asks, a bit alarmed.

“No! No, god no,” Toby laughs with a grimace. “Best just leave them to it.” 

Not long later, Victor storms back in looking angry and tired. He slumps into his chair.

“Sherlock?” Evie prompts.

“Gone home,” Victor says shortly. “Drink up, let’s go to the cinema.” 

John glances at the back door with a small frown, but doesn’t comment.

* * *

 

It’s dark by the time John makes it back to the Holmes’ residence. He really had wanted to head back sooner, but the trio had begged him to stay out with them and after everything they had done for him he couldn't refuse. He also couldn’t very well say,  _ ‘I would but I would much rather spend my time with Sherlock, even though I have  _ definitely  _ known you all an equal amount of time.’  _

A bit tipsy, John trips his way up to the large front door. He turns and waves briefly at Victor, who is heading in the opposite direction after walking him back. The boy had offered John a bed at his own house for the night, but John had politely refused claiming the Holmes parents were expecting him and he didn’t want to make anyone worried. A lie, obviously, but one that Victor bought. 

Belatedly hoping it’s not  _ too  _ late, John rings the bell.

After a minute, the door opens and Mr Holmes’ face appears.

“Hey Mr Ho-William. Sorry. Hello. Is Sherlock back?” John smiles, inwardly kicking himself at his stumbled speech.

Mr Holmes’ smile drops a little. “I thought he was with you and Victor?”

John pulls a face. “Yeah. Well. They had a fight, of sorts. Sherlock left earlier.”

The older man sighs. “Oh dear. Sometimes I believe the two of them fight almost as much as Sherlock and his own brother,” Mr Holmes shakes his head ruefully. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon, if he isn’t sulking in his room.” He opens the door wide and lets John pass through. “You staying over?”

John pauses on his route to the stairs. Mentally curses himself. Forgotten what it’s like to have to ask a parent for permission to do anything. He turns around and gives a sheepish smile. “If that’s okay with you and Mrs Holmes?” 

“Of course, John! You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Mr Holmes beams. 

_ How this angel of a person ever produced a psychopath for a daughter, I will never know,  _ John thinks.

“Thank you. Truly.” John smiles gratefully and gallops up the stairs two at a time. 

“Goodnight,” John hears Mr Holmes chuckle at his retreating back. 

Sherlock’s bedroom door is closed, so he knocks on the wood. When there’s no reply, he opens it cautiously and pokes his head inside. 

The room is empty.

John sighs, closes the door and pads down the hall to his own room. He half-expects to find Sherlock sprawled out dramatically on his bed, but no. His room is empty, too. John wonders absently if he should be worried, but knowing Sherlock, and by his own father's reaction, it’s probably safe to assume Sherlock is simply out gallivanting as he usually does. 

John sinks down on the bed tiredly, noticing the book Sherlock had left there this morning on his pillow. He picks it up, reading a title he doesn’t recognise. He flips the book over to read the blurb and is surprised to find it’s a fiction novel, having never seen Sherlock read anything that wasn’t fact or theory. The man openly mocks John when he catches him reading one of his thrillers. John smiles, picturing Sherlock at home secretly reading spy novels under torchlight when John has gone to bed. 

He places the book in his nightstand and starts getting ready for bed. 

He’s out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow.

* * *

 

It’s still dark but the birds are beginning to sing when John rouses a little, ears pricking as hears his bedroom door slowly creaking open. Soft feet pad quietly towards his bed and he tenses. The subtle squeak of a leather coat, a vague scent of tobacco. A pale hand reaches out, and gently lifts the book from the nightstand. John quickly shuts his eyes again, feigning sleep.

A moment of silence, then; a soft touch, barely a whisper of fingers, brushes John’s hair. Just as suddenly as it came, it’s gone, and a few seconds later the door clicks softly shut once more. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably a plethora of grammatical errors as I am posting this after just a quick skim through, so sorry about that! 
> 
> Thank you again for all your comments and so on and so forth, I love you all! Keep sending me your thoughts and predictions, I LOVE hearing them!

John wakes to the sound of a hauntingly sweet melody drifting under the crack of his bedroom door. With the sun peeking out through the curtains and the scent of freshly mown grass filling the room, John can’t help but lie there in the soft warm sheets of his bed and wonder at the waves of contentment flooding through his body.

After a moment of self-indulgence, John slides from the bed and follows the bittersweet music out of his room and down the hall. Sherlock’s door is ajar and John carefully nudges it open and stops.

His friend sits at the piano with his back to John, upright and swaying slightly like John has seen him do when he’s particularly engrossed in a violin composition. Sherlock’s head tilts slowly from left to right as his hands fly up and down the keys, as if he’s panning the music from one ear to the other to gauge the best sound. John is sure if he moved closer, he would see those sharp eyes closed in blissful concentration. 

John leans against the door frame and watches the younger man with a small smile. Allows the music to sweep around him, the swelling melody washing over him like waves of the ocean. The music gradually speeds up, the repeated pattern changing the tone of the piece as it becomes hurried and urgent. John moves slowly forward to watch those long fingers dancing rapidly across the keys, is impressed but not surprised at the dexterity displayed, until the music suddenly stops. John glances up, expecting to see Sherlock looking over at him in accusation, but his face is still bowed over the piano, hands still hovering over the last notes and John wonders if that’s just how the piece ends. 

“That was beautiful,” John can’t help but murmur. 

Sherlock starts slightly at his voice but doesn't turn, lowering his hands into his lap. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump,” John smiles. Sherlock still doesn’t look up though, and sits staring down at his hands. 

“Did you write it?” John asks after a moment.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.”

“Play another?” John asks quietly, feeling bad to having disturbed the peaceful serenity of the room.

Sherlock hesitates for a second then places his hands delicately back on the keys. Holds them still for a moment while he thinks deeply. 

John;s eyes are drawn to a shadow of a bruise on Sherlocks right forearm, the pattern not dissimilar to fingers curled around the pale limb. John can feel himself scowl, irked that Victor had grabbed Sherlock hard enough to leave a bruise when he had dragged his friend out of the pub the day before. 

Thinking of yesterday, John moves a little closer to take a proper look at Sherlock’s face. His expression is blank, eyes downcast as he thinks. And yes, his left cheekbone is ever so slightly swollen, a vaguely red rouge painted across the flesh from where his head had been slammed down onto the table. It’s hardly noticeable, however. Could be easily explained away as a result of sleeping heavily on his hand. 

Sherlock readjusts his hands positions and pressing down into a happier chord. That’s when John spies the dark stain of another bruise on the very edge of his jawbone, just under his ear and spilling a little across to his neck. It’s not big enough to be easily spotted if Sherlock was looking at himself in the mirror, but it’s clearly noticeable to anyone else standing at his side. There’s a splotch of purpling in the middle of it, and John frowns at the force it must have taken for the colouring to be so pronounced. 

“That guy has given you some nasty bruises.”

Sherlock immediatly stops playing and flies a hand up to his throat. 

John’s frown deepens. “Your cheek,” he elaborates. “And there’s another one appearing on your jaw, under your ear.”

Sherlock lowers his hands once more. “I didn’t notice,” he mutters, voice oddly void of any emotion.

“It’s a weird angle, you probably missed it in the mirror.”

“So it seems.”

John steps closer and turns, leaning his back onto the piano so he is facing Sherlock. “Who was he, anyway?”

Sherlock glances at him, face closed. “Who?”

John raises an eyebrow. “The guy at the pub. Alex, was it?”

After a second, Sherlock raises brows in recognition and sucks in a little breath. “Oh. Him. Yes. No, no one. The town’s roughian.” He shrugs with a little smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

John is about to open his mouth again when Mrs Holmes’ head pops around the door. She smiles at John before addressing her son, “Victor’s on the phone Sherlock, asking for you.” She disappears again without waiting for a reply.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up with a stretch. He shoots John an amused glance when he spots John’s disapproving look at the mention of Mr Heavy-Handed Trevor. 

“Won’t be a moment,” Sherlock says before leaving the room.

John watches him leave, something not sitting well deep in his stomach. A flash of the scene in his mind's eye; Sherlock wrenching his arm out of Victor’s grip as the pub’s back door closes behind them. Sherlock wrenching his  _ bicep  _ out of Victor’s grip. 

John blinks. Something propels him across the room and he flings the door open again.

_ “Jesus!” _

Eurus is standing at the threshold, doesn’t flinch at the sudden appearance. 

She looks John up and down, shoots him a small grin. “You’re still here.”

Heart still in his throat, John takes a shaky step back. “Yep.”

Eurus follows him into the room, saunters over to the piano where her brother had sat not a moment before. She runs her fingers across the surface of the keys. “Do you like him?”

John watches her warily. “Who?” he asks, playing dumb.

She sends him a knowing smile over her shoulder. “Sherlock.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“He likes you,” she says this with a lilt as her eyes wander around the room. 

“Er, okay. Yeah. Good. I would have..hoped so.” 

She takes two quick strides towards John and their faces end up a hairbreadth away, her feet planted between John’s. He holds himself deliberately still and Eurus’ sharp eyes scan his expression hungrily. “You should probably let that breathe.” Her quiet whisper caresses John’s face.

John blinks. “What?”

Her eyes flick up to the plaster on John’s forehead.

“Oh, that. Yeah I know, I-”

Quick as a flash, her hand reaches up towards his temple and before he can think John has snatched her wrist mid-air, halting the prying fingers. A slow pleased smirk tilts Eurus’ lips upwards. There’s a moment of heated silence, both waiting for the other to back down. John caves.

“Sorry,” John mutters, reluctantly opening his tight fingers with a strained smile. Eurus watches him intently, still smirking slightly, as her hand continues its journey. With surprising gentleness, she peels away the plaster and flicks it blindly to the left where it lands in the bin. Silver eyes now trained on the gash, she raises her fingers again slowly and John has to physically restrain himself to not jerk away when the cold digits flutter around the wound.  

“How’s it looking?” John asks as casually as he can. A sharp sting makes him grimace a little as her fingertips brush the broken skin. 

Without replying, Eurus lowers her fingers to John’s eyeline, where fresh blood paints her pale skin red. 

John watches her, unnerved, as she turns her hand towards herself and inspects her stained fingers with an inappropriately rapt attention. 

The sound of approaching footsteps fills John with relief, which doesn’t last very long when Eurus glances up at him with a blankly cold expression. Suddenly, she reaches her hand up to John’s neck and swipes her bloodied fingers on his pulsepoint, then leans in close.

“There, now you’re matching,” she breathes into his ear before spinning away and leaving the room without a backward glance. 

John’s heart is thudding painfully as he stands there, frozen and rattled. He can hear Sherlock’s voice outside the door, muffled and low. If Eurus replies to him, John doesn’t pick it up, and then Sherlock is entering his room and closing the door behind him. 

“Alright?” Sherlock asks, looking concerned at John’s undoubtedly pale face. 

_ No,  _ John wants to reply. It makes him agitated, how much Eurus affects him. John has faced down murderers, kidnappers, rapists, terrorists. But this small eighteen year old girl, with her angelic face but hard, cold eyes..well. She’s something different altogether. 

John shakes himself. “Yeah. Fine. What did Victor want?” He makes his legs move and strolls over to Sherlock’s bed, taking a much needed seat on the soft sheets.

When Sherlock doesn’t answer, John looks up at him warily. The taller boy is staring at John with a creased brow, lips pinched together in a thin line. Sherlock walks towards John and stops just before his shins brush John’s knees. 

John tilts his head up, raising an eyebrow in question.

Slowly, as if John is a wild animal easily spooked, Sherlock reaches out his right hand and swipes his thumb gently over John’s jaw. His eyes take in the missing plaster on John’s forehead and his face shutters to expressionless. John holds his breath, rapidly trying to think of an explanation, but then Sherlock is pulling back and away without comment. He turns his back on John for a moment, standing upright and still, before he heads over to his desk and starts rummaging around in the top drawer.

“He asked if we fancied going over to his today for a BBQ,” Sherlock is saying and it takes John a second to remember his earlier question. 

“Oh, right. It’s a nice day for it,” John murmurs, glancing towards the window where the cloudless sky paints a vivid blue across the glass.

Sherlock turns around again and steps back over to John. He raises his long fingers and John notices a fresh plaster in between his middle and index fingers. 

Without a word, Sherlock unwraps the paper and tilts John’s chin up with a bent knuckle. John allows him to gently stick the new plaster onto his temple, wondering absently why it suddenly feels a little hard to breathe. Sherlock has patched John up multiple times before, not as much as John has done for  _ him _ , but enough times that the act is familiar and easy. But this feels different, somehow. John can’t understand why an electrical current shocks through him when Sherlock’s thumb tenderly brushes the plaster down onto his skin, and he gives a small exhale of relief when Sherlock steps back. 

But then, Sherlock’’s head is tilting to the left and he is bringing that thumb up to his mouth and sucking the digit for a second before reaching out once more and rubbing the wet flesh over John’s jaw. He repeats this once, twice, and John is both perplexed and unsurprised that Sherlock doesn’t seem at all fazed by the coppery taste of John’s blood. 

John is sure Sherlock can feel his rapid pulse with every swipe.  

Finally satisfied, Sherlock looks him over before giving a little nod of approval and moving away.

John feels himself slump slightly when Sherlock turns his back once more.  _ Jesus.  _ John is faintly concerned he might have a heart attack before the day is out. 

Two siblings; both utterly lacking any semblance of normality but in entirely different ways, both causing similar reactions to John’s body but for entirely different reasons. 

Feeling far too overwhelmed at such an early hour, John lets out a slow breath and rubs his eyes with both hands. Leaving the house sounds wonderful.  

“When’s this BBQ then?” 

* * *

 

Victor’s little shindig isn’t scheduled until early afternoon, much to John’s dismay, but he had perked up when Sherlock asked if he would go to the book shop with him for his morning shift.

“You’re actually planning to go in today?” John asks with a chuckle over breakfast.

It’s just the two of them this morning, Sherlock’s parents apparently out and Eurus has completely disappeared again. Sherlock had located John’s clean clothes folded in a hamper in the utility room, to which the doctor was grateful. He felt a bit weird borrowing clothes, especially as he suspected they were Mycroft’s.

“I’ve found playing truant  _ two  _ days in a row can cause Mr Jones heart palpitations, and considering he is incredibly old I don’t really want the man’s death on my hands,” Sherlock remarks flippantly as he sips at his tea.

“Mr Jones?” John asks curiously, wondering why that name sounds familiar.

“The shop owner. You met him briefly the other day, when I had a blue tongue. Tiny man, full of rage-”

“No, I remember him,” John interrupts with a snort. Then it hits him. Mr  _ Jones.  _ “Was his wife the one who you..” John trails off when Sherlock shoots him a sharp look. 

There’s a moment of awkward silence, and then John groans, bored of this pussyfooting. He isn’t used to walking on eggshells around Sherlock at home, doesn’t really want to start doing that here, too. 

“I know about the whole Dog Situation,” John announces dismissively. “I don’t really understand why everyone is so reluctant to bring it up, it’s not as if you actually  _ did  _ anything.. Well, except breaking and entering, I suppose. And stealing. But considering you gave it back, I don’t-”

“I didn’t hurt him,” Sherlock interrupts quietly, eyes downcast.

“Yeah, I know that,” John shrugs. “Everyone knows that, in fact.” 

Sherlock looks at him curiously. “Don’t you want to know why I took him?”

John shrugs again. “Not really.” He takes a bite of toast. 

Sherlock stares. Then huffs an incredulous laugh before going back to his tea, looking more relaxed.

John is, in fact, a little interested as to why Sherlock took the dog. But he’s fairly certain he was just planning some sort of experiment (he once walked in on Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table in Baker Street, stethoscope in his ears, intense expression on his face and a yawning cat laying on a pillow in front of him. John had backed out of the room without a word) and he knows Sherlock well enough to determine when the man needs some reassurance and a subject dropped. 

As they continue their breakfast in companionable silence, John’s eyes are drawn to the bruise on Sherlock’s jaw again. He’s put on tight jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, effectively hiding his forearm. John wants to ask about the injuries, has a sinking feeling that Victor is responsible for the one on Sherlock’s neck, too. Initially, John had assumed that had been caused by the table where that Alex guy had pinned him down, but John has inspected enough bruise patterns on bodies during his time working with Sherlock to recognise when something doesn’t add up. And unless Sherlock had been pinned to the  _ corner  _ of the table where the pointed wood could have dug into the sensitive flesh of his under-jaw, and John had clearly seen with his own eyes that to not be the case, Sherlock shouldn’t have a bruise there. Besides, if he really was slammed down hard enough to bruise like that, surely his cheek would be purple too?

John repeatedly opens his mouth, but something is holding him back. For one, he has no idea where Sherlock went after his and Victor’s ‘conversation’ in the beer garden. Sherlock had come home at a stupid hour this morning, if John’s half-asleep consciousness is to be trusted. Sherlock could have gone anywhere, got himself into any amount of trouble. Jesus, he could have gone seeking out that Alex bastard for all John knew, and got himself roughed up a bit. It’s certainly nothing new, not in John’s world nor this one taking into account Jules’ comments. 

Then again, taking into account  _ Eurus’  _ comment, it could have even been her. John hasn’t seen the siblings together enough to gauge  _ exactly  _ the dynamic of their relationship, but he certainly wouldn’t put it past the girl to do something so minor as to bruise her brother. Then again, it’s the  _ how  _ she could have bruised him that gets John squirming a little in his seat.

Or yes, on the other hand, Victor did it yesterday. A badly-coordinated slap maybe? If that’s the case, John really would like to have a  _ conversation  _ with the boy himself..not that he can really take the high horse when it comes to hitting Sherlock. John winces at that thought.  

_ Or,  _ Sherlock could have easily struck his head in an utterly harmless accident, John thinks with an internal huff. He really is getting paranoid in his old age. Or maybe that’s due to Mary and her lies. Or Sherlock and his lies. 

_ A harmless accident wouldn’t have left finger marks on his arm, though. _

Or maybe it’s just a gut feeling.

* * *

 

“Where the hell were you yesterday, boy?!” 

Sherlock spends the first half-hour of his shift being shouted at by his boss, as Olivia watches on with amusement from behind a shelf and John wanders aimlessly around the shop. 

Sherlock is then assigned stocking duty in the back room, which makes him groan loudly giving John the impression it’s his least-favourite job and thus punishment for the day before. He gives John a bit of a desperate look as he’s lead away and John wiggles his fingers at him, unsympathetic.

John takes a seat in a plush armchair, having found one of the thriller books he enjoyed back at home. He’s read it before, but never got to the end because Sherlock had ruined it for him by deducing the killer which prompted John to throw the book at his head. It had landed in a corner of the flat, having missed its intended target, and John had never found it again after that.

John settles in, allowing the words to transport him away from his own spinning thoughts with welcome relief, and even Sherlock’s occasional disembodied shout of  _ ‘Boring! This is boring!’  _ doesn’t penetrate the tranquility of his mind. If he tries hard, John can even fool himself into believing he’s back in Baker Street, reading in his chair and purposefully ignoring the attention-seeking hollers of his mad flatmate.

Sherlock emerges over an hour later, looking a bit dusty and restless. 

“You can go to Victor’s whenever you want, John. Don’t stay here on my account.”

John finds the offer a bit far-fetched, considering Sherlock had all but dragged him into the shop with strict instructions to  _ ‘stay here’.  _

“It’s fine, I'm enjoying the peace to be honest,” John says truthfully.

Sherlock glances at the title of his book, and John quickly hides it with a hand and narrows his eyes suspiciously. Sherlock gives him a strange look but doesn’t comment.

“I don’t know how long I have to stay here,” Sherlock presses and John wonders if Sherlock is planning to bail on their afternoon plans, possibly reluctant to see Victor.

“I can wait.”

Olivia’s head pops out from behind a shelf. “No, please, go with your friend. Somehow, you actually create more work for me to do later.” 

Sherlock scoffs and turns back to John, who raises his hands up in a shrug. 

“Besides, I don’t know where Victor lives.” 

* * *

 

Victor’s house isn’t dissimilar to Musgrave in it’s grandness. It’s slightly smaller, but only just, and has considerably more modern architecture than the Holmes’ period home. John can tell from the outside that it has less floors, too, but there are still countless large windows overlooking the country road, and an ivory balcony runs across the front of the house on the second floor. 

“Are you two aristocratic or..?” John mutters in awe as they make their way up to the large oak front door. 

“I believe there’s a couple of Lords on my father's side, a Dutchess too if I’m not mistaken. I’m not particularly familiar with Victor’s family tree, however. Quite possibly. I vaguely remember him mentioning an Earl somewhere down the line but I forget the details.”

John stares at him. “I was joking.”

Sherlock stops a few feet away from the door and John stumbles to a stop beside him, glancing ahead. There’s a piece of paper stuck to the wood under an elaborate iron knocker with twisted vines crisscrossing around each other to create the upside down C shape.

They both start towards it until the slanted writing is easily deciphered.

_ ‘Come round the back, the gate is open.’  _

Sherlock huffs and turns on his heel elegantly, heading back down the path. John quickly follows. 

“You never asked if I remember anything today,” John feels the need to point out for some reason as Sherlock leads him around to the left of the house. 

“I assumed you would tell me if you did,” Sherlock replies absently. He then glances over with a shrewd look. “You haven't asked if the trains are running.”

“I assumed you would tell me if they were,” John quips back. 

Sherlock’s lips twitch but then he suddenly stops as they arrive at the back of the house, just before the stone wall ends and a tall iron fence begins. He turns to John with a curious expression. “Are you planning on staying with me forever, John?” 

John stops too, sucks in a slow breath as he carefully thinks of a reply to that.  _ In a way, yes?  _ He can’t say that. They both know John could have caught the early substitute bus back to London that morning, but neither had mentioned it at the time. John had hoped Sherlock had simply forgotten, and maybe he had. But something made John think that Sherlock was simply enjoying his company. Now, however, he is acutely aware he’s probably outstaying his welcome. 

“No, no I-I should probably head back in the morning. You’re right, you must be waiting for me to-”

Sherlock cuts him off, “No. I mean, you’re welcome to stay, if you want. I’ve rather got used to having you around.” He quirks a small smile but it is soon overtaken with an odd expression. “I see what you mean,” he mutters mostly to himself.

“What’s that?” 

Sherlock pauses with a deep frown as he scans John intently before saying in a whisper that John almost doesn’t catch, “Feels like I know you…” 

John seriously wonders if that is the case, or if Sherlock has simply grown comfortable with him and isn’t used to the sensation. They had certainly grown complacent and domestic enough in an unusually short amount of time back at home all those years ago. John had shot and killed someone for Sherlock not twenty-four hours after meeting the man, for god’s sake. Strange, the thought that wherever (and whenever) they are, that bizzare  _ and slightly terrifying  _ bond they share persists undisturbed. John’s never had a friendship like that before, like the universe is pulling the two of them together no matter the circumstance. 

The term  _ friendship  _ seems too mundane.

“Sherlock, there you are!” 

Sherlock starts so violently that John has to hold back a grin and they both whip round to see a tall, broad man striding towards them from a now-open gate further along the fence. He has a large grin on his handsome face that John can’t help but mimic. As he gets closer, John can see the resemblance.  _ This must be Victor’s father.  _

Like Mr Holmes, he has a full head of hair despite looking to be well into his late forties. It’s the same shade as Victors, the dark auborn, but there’s an attractive dusting of grey at his temples. However, unlike his son’s mossy green eyes, Mr Trevor’s are an unusually dark brown.

As he reaches them, he slaps Sherlock on the shoulder with a tanned hand and tugs him close to his side for a half-hug.  

“How are you, son?” 

Sherlock squirms away with an irritated expression focused on the ground and John vaguely remembers Victor’s comment from the other day, alluding that Sherlock doesn’t like Victor’s father very much. John can’t see why, the jovial man reminds him of William and John knows Sherlock adores his father. Maybe it’s all the hugging, John thinks with a smile as Sherlock shuffles out of arm's reach. Sherlock, while usually utterly dismissive of other people’s personal space, is very protective of his own.

“Fine. This is John Watson, John this is Alfred Trevor, Victor’s father,” Sherlock mutters, waving a lazy hand without glancing up.

“Call me Alfie,” the man smiles and takes John’s hand with a firm shake. “Victor’s told me all about you, of course. Amnesia! How queer. I hope my boys haven't been giving you too much grief?” He chuckles deeply and catches Sherlock by the back of his neck with a large hand. 

“Grief? No, not at all. They’ve both been very hospitable. Sherlock’s been kind enough to let me stay with him until I can sort myself out,” John directs his smile at Sherlock, who seems to have given up trying to escape and is standing there, sullen.

“Is that so?” Mr Trevor smiles down at Sherlock, his forearm flexing as he squeezes the neck under his hand. “That’s awfully generous of you, Sherlock.” 

“Come on, then,” Sherlock mutters, pulling away and striding ahead towards the gate. Mr Trevor lets him go with a smile and a shake of his head, and steps in unison with John. 

“So John, Victor tells me you’re studying medicine in London?” 

“That’s right,” John nods, watching Sherlock disappear through the gate.

“Impressive, very impressive,” he claps John’s shoulder blade with enough force to make John almost stumble forward. “My son tells me our Sherlock’s taken an immediate shine to you. I must say, that in itself could be deemed even more impressive.” The man laughs heartily. 

“Apparently so,” John snorts. 

“He’s a good boy, Sherlock. When he’s not getting into trouble with the police, that is,” Mr Trevor shakes his head again with a rueful chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t know how William deals with him sometimes.”

“I think he just kind of leaves him to it,” John comments mildly.

“Truer words have never been spoken. There’s a distinct lack of discipline in that house, if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times.”

John has to concede that point, shudders at the thought of his own mother’s reaction if she had received a call declaring John was locked in a cell. John feels a brief pang of regret that if he had been transported back not three years earlier, he could have gone to visit her before her unexpected death.  

“But what can we do?” the man is continuing amicably as they pass through the gate. “Sherlock is the way he is.”

“I’ve noticed,” John snorts, glancing around the garden with an impressed eye. 

It’s a huge area of land, a beautiful fountain situated in the middle and a small summer house down near the end where the short grass develops into a wild forest. On the opposite side of the garden sits an elaborate raised white gazebo, with a delicate set of table and chairs overlooks the land. John can imagine two young women sitting there enjoying tea together in expensive victorian dresses, gossiping about dandies and scandals. 

Toby is lounging by a small pool, feet splashing in the clear water as he reads a textbook. 

On a grand stone porch where pure glass double doors lead back into the house, a large grill wafts delicious smelling smoke high into the air. A dark wooden outdoor bar is a good few feet away from the heat, where Evie is fluttering around in a pretty yellow sundress, pouring this and that into a martini shaker with such rapid movements she could resemble a mad scientist. 

John spies Victor and Sherlock standing under a large cream parasol next to a long wooden table adorned with glasses, plates and bowls. They seem to be deep in discussion, heads bowed together.

“Alfie! Come and try this cocktail I made!” Evie calls, waving him over with a raised glass. She grins at John when she sees him and shakes the full glass in his direction, causing a small spill that she ignores.

“Ah, duty calls. Make yourself at home, John,” Mr Trevor pats him on the shoulder once more before heading over to the girl and admonishing that, “I doubt anything in  _ that  _ shade of purple is safe for consumption, missy.”

John waves over at Toby who has raised an arm in greeting as he wanders over to Sherlock and Victor, where he picks up the tail end of a hissed sentence.

“-tell me he was going to be here!” 

“He does live here, Sherlock,” Victor rolls his eyes and spies John’s approaching form. “Alright, John?” He smiles and claps John on the shoulder in a manner very similar to his father. 

Sherlock spins away without a word and storms over towards Toby, who immediately points at something on his page and asks Sherlock a question.

“So, what’s the deal with Sherlock and your dad?” John asks, leaning his hip against the table and moving fully under the shade. A jumper really wasn’t cleverest thing to wear in this weather. 

“He’s a bit much for Sherlock, I think,” Victor chuckles as a deep roar of laughter emerges from the bar where Evie is slowly panning an empty glass from left to right as Alfie attempts to throw ice into it. “But in all honesty, it’s really just a game between the two of them. Sherlock grew up with my parents just as much as his own, and vice versa for me. We’re all family,” he shrugs and reaches into a bowl for a crisp. 

“Family can dislike each other,” John comments lowly, watching the boy munch away and thinking about bruises. 

“Of course they can,” Victor agrees easily. “But at the end of the day, they’re still family.” 

“Uhuh. Hey, can I ask you something?” John doesn’t wait for an answer, “What happened between you and Sherlock yesterday outside the pub?” 

Victor gives him an odd look. “Why?”

“Curious. Sherlock didn’t come back ‘til late and I was wondering how bad your argument was to make him sulk for so long.” John gives a forced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Victor looks puzzled, pops another crisp in his mouth. “We didn’t have an argument.”

John frowns. “But he left.”

“Yeah. I asked him some questions, to none of which he replied, and then he just stormed off,” Victor shrugs again before shooting John a knowing smile. “I wouldn’t worry about it, John. Sherlock is always doing that.”

John knows this, and he tugs at the collar of his jumper with a furrowed brow as he looks over to Sherlock, who has produced a pen from somewhere and is writing briskly in Toby’s textbook as the other boy reads over his shoulder. 

“Want to borrow a t-shirt?” Victor asks with a grin, nodding at John’s chest. 

“Erm, no, Thanks. It’s fine,” John replies, distractedly. 

“I’ll get you one,” Victor says anyway and trots away into the house. 

John’s eyes follow him until he disappears, then notices a pale face watching him through a window. John blinks back, a bit startled, and after a moment the face withdraws. John glances around himself, wondering if he’s seeing things, but a second later the glass door opens again and a small woman wanders out holding a tray carrying a large jug of what appears to be lemonade and a plate of bread rolls. 

She’s a tiny thing, too-thin with porcelain white skin. Her pale blonde hair cascades down her back in waves, framing a delicate face with almost childlike features; large green eyes and a slightly upturned nose. John wonders if she’s a maid.

He moves forward to help her place the tray onto the table, a bit worried she’ll drop it under the weight.

“Ah, bless you,” she smiles up at him. Her voice is surprisingly low and husky, it doesn’t suit her pixie-like appearance. “You must be John,” she says, wiping dainty hands down the front on of her white dress. 

“Yes, hello.” John extents his hand and she places her right one, palm-down, into his grasp. John, a bit awkward, simply wiggles it a bit before letting go. He wonders if he was meant to kiss it, finds the gesture a bit too old-fashioned even for him.

“I’m Lily, Victor’s mother,” she says, beginning to unload the contents of the tray onto the table. 

John reaches out to take the heavy jug from her, a bit surprised at this. She isn’t young, by any means, but he can’t imagine such a tiny frame carrying a child for nine months. 

Mrs Trevor glances over John’s shoulder before grabbing a tall empty glass. “Lemonade, Sherlock? I know it’s your favourite.” 

John turns as Sherlock sidles up next to him, who is giving the woman a strangely empty look. 

“No, thank you,” he murmurs politely as she pours a generous amount into the glass anyway and slides it across the table to him. He doesn’t reach for it.

“John, Toby wants your opinion on something,” Sherlock turns to him, face expectant. 

“Eat something, Sherlock. You’re far too-thin,” Lily interjects, jerkily pushing a bowl towards them. John thinks she is one to talk.

“I’m fine, Lily,” Sherlock drawls without looking at her, then takes John’s arm and promptly leads him away.       

“Nice meeting you,” John calls over his shoulder, noticing Lily’s almost defeated expression as she watches Sherlock’s retreading back. 

“That was a bit rude, Sherlock,” John scolds blandly and shakes his arm out of Sherlock’s grip.

Sherlock gives him an affronted look. Then glances down at John’s jumper with a critical eye. “Aren’t you hot?” 

“Victor’s getting me a t-shirt, I think.”

“No need,” Sherlock replies.

“What do you me-” John’s question is cut off as Sherlock gives his back a hard shove and John is propelled forward, arms flailing, before he is falling heavily down and into the pool with a large giant splash.

John has a second to think  _ ‘God it’s cold’  _ before he’s resurfacing, spluttering in shock. 

Sherlock is standing at the edge, hands on his knees and roaring in laughter. Toby seems to be torn somewhere between wheezing and complaining about his wet book.

“You prick!” John cries, splashing a wave upwards as Sherlock wipes away a tear. He neatly sidesteps the water, which John was counting on as it brings him closer to the edge. With a leap, John flies forward and grabs Sherlock’s thighs and pulls hard. Sherlock’s eyes widen comically in a moment of panic before he too is falling off the edge and into the cool water.

By the time Sherlock’s head appears again, coughing liquid out of his lungs and hair flattened against his scalp, John is performing a lazy backstroke away from him.

“You’re right, this has cooled me down,” he announces airily. “Thanks, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lets out a growl, wiping his fringe out of his eyes before diving at John’s stomach and forcing them both under again. 

“You’re both crazy!” John hears Evie cry in delight in the distance as his head breaks the water once more, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders and trying to shove him back down into the depths. 

Sherlock wrestles with him, laughing and tugging at John’s heavy jumper and ending up submerging them both.

“Okay, okay!” John howls when they come up for air, grinning and trying to push Sherlock away. “I need to breathe!” 

Toby is snickering, body turned away to avoid the worst of the impacts.

John swims over to the edge of the pool, leaning his arms against the tile as he pants much needed oxygen into his lungs.  

“I leave you alone for two minutes!” Victor is shouting in mock-indignation from the patio doors, a navy blue t-shirt in his hand. His mother is sitting at the table, sipping a glass of lemonade with a small smile.

Evie skips over, a glass full of purple liquid in each hand. She stops a few feet away, squinting at them in suspicion as Sherlock appears next to John.

“You’re not going to pull me in are you?”

“No, no,” John laughs breathlessly, elbowing Sherlock who flicks water back at him. 

Evie grins and crouches down in front of them, holding out the glasses. “Try this, I made it myself!”

John and Sherlock both reach for a glass and she wanders over to Toby to ruffle his hair. 

“What about me?” John hears Toby pout and she tugs at his hair playfully. 

“I only have two hands, your highness.”

“Here you are, lad,” Alfie is chuckling as he walks over, and hands a glass to Toby. “Sip it, mind. You’ll see why.”

John takes a gulp of the drink and almost spits it back out. Swallows with difficulty, eyes streaming. “Jesus, Evie! What the hell is in this?”

Sherlock, seeing this, takes a delicate sip and immediately winces. 

“Bit of this, bit of that,” Evie smirks, sipping her own drink through an orange straw.

“And by that she means a bit of everything,” Alfie snorts, taking a drink from a tumbler that holds a much safer-looking amber liquid. John wonders if it’s whiskey, much preferring the hard spirit over the too-sweet mismatched abomination in his hand.

Alfie catches him looking and gives him an oddly intense look, dark eyes flicking over to Sherlock for a moment before he turns away and strolls over to his wife, bending down to kiss her cheek and taking a seat next to her. 

Victor emerges through the glass doors again, arms full. “Come on, out of the pool you hooligans. I’ve got towels.”

“I dunno, I’m quite enjoying the water to be honest,” John smiles teasingly. “What about you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock is staring down into his glass with a passive expression. He blinks up at John when he hears his name and quirks a quick grin. “What? Oh yes, it’s very refreshing.” He takes a large gulp from his glass and John is a little impressed when he swallows without difficulty. 

“Is it really?” Evie asks, placing her drink on the tile at her feet before grabbing the hem of her dress and begins lifting it.

“No!” Toby dives at her, tugging the skirt back down. 

“Oi!” 

John chuckles and places his own glass down before hoisting himself up over the side of the pool. Once on solid ground, he reaches down a hand and Sherlock allows him to pull him out. Victor chucks a towel each of them, and the t-shirt at John, before snatching up Evie’s drink and sniffing it curiously. 

“Get your own glass!” Evie grabs for it back and Victor dances away, taking a large gulp. The proceeding splutter seems to placate the girl, who points at him and laughs mockingly.

John tugs his heavy jumper off over his head and dumps it on the ground with a slap. The hot sun feels wondrous on his cooling skin and he ignores the towel and t-shirt for the moment in lieu of flopping down on the soft grass to let the summer heat dry him naturally. He kicks off his sodden shoes and socks and stretches out with a sigh.

John glances down at himself, still not quite used to seeing the smooth toned stomach produced from regular rugby practice and simple youth.  _ I need to get back into shape when I get home,  _ John thinks absently,  _ If I ever get home.  _ He deliberately chases those thoughts away as they tend to restrict his breathing a bit. 

“You play rugby at university,” Sherlock states quietly as he sits down cross-legged next to him, scrubbing his hair with the towel. It isn’t a question and his eyes are on John’s chest as if sharing John’s thoughts.

“Yep,” John nods, glancing over at the other three who are chatting and giggling amongst themselves a few feet away before allowing himself to peek at the skin-tight wet shirt clinging to Sherlock’s raised arms and torso. He can see the outline of subtle, ropey muscle and feels a little jealous that the older Sherlock from home still seems to possess the same body at his nineteen year old counterpart, if a little broader at the shoulders.  

Sherlock drops the towel, and John’s eyes are drawn to his fluffed up hair. He grins, and without thinking reaches up to runs his fingers through the curls. Sherlock stills for a moment, before surprising John by leaning into the touch with a small, shy smile.

There’s a delicate cough from the left and John looks around to see three pairs of eyes watching them, accompanied by three identical grins.

John hastily lowers his hand and feels himself flush, glancing at Sherlock whose cheeks are equally pink. John catches his eye and they both snigger in embarrassment, Sherlock hanging his head to hide his face.

“I’m going to get changed,” Sherlock announces a bit too loudly a moment later and hauls himself to his feet. 

“Going with him, John?” Victor asks innocently, eyes sparkling.

John shoots him a half-hearted glare, but can’t stop his eyes from following the clinging jeans covering Sherlock’s arse as he walks away. If his hips are swinging a little more than usual, John purposely doesn’t notice and forces himself to look away with a heavy swallow.   

He ignores the small snickers next to him and closes his eyes, reaching his hands up to rest under his head and he smiles up into the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece of music Sherlock was playing at the beginning of this chapter was Melodia Africana III by Ludovico Einaudi, one of my absolute favourite composers. (Also, yes I am aware this particular piece wasn’t released until 2001 but shuffle played it by chance as I was writing that scene and I couldn’t resist) 
> 
> Next chapter will be a continuation of where we have left off here....I could have easily continued but I had to end the chapter at SOME point...


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speediest update I've ever done, go me. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all your comments, it gives me such a thrill to hear all your predictions and thoughts! 
> 
> Continuing on...

“Put your shirt back on, please John, for christ’s sake.”

John opens his eyes and glances over to his right where Toby sports a painful expression, eyes drifting between John’s chest and Evie who is sitting cross-legged, chewing the end of her straw and staring unabashedly at John’s naked torso. 

Toby clicks his fingers in front of her eyes and she blinks and turns her head.

“What’s that?” she asks absently.

Toby puts his face in his hands and lets out a little whimper between his fingers. John laughs and sits up, shrugging on the tshirt Victor had thrown at him over his now-dry skin. 

The teen in question has wandered away, John hadn’t noticed him leaving, and he’s sitting at the table behind them chatting to his mother.

“ _ Nice _ ,” Evie whispers to herself and John glances back around. She’s back to staring at John’s chest again, and Victor looks up in alarm.

Okay, yes, admittedly the shirt is a tad tight.

“Oh my  _ god! _ ” Toby howls and dives at his girlfriend. She squeals as he knocks her onto her back and begins tickling her sides mercilessly. 

“I’m joking, I’m joking!” She laughs hysterically, trying to bat his hands away. “You’re the only man for me! I swear! Toby!”

John chuckles at their antics, reaching down to roll up the hems on his still-wet jeans. Shifting his bum forward, he dangles his feet over the edge of the pool and into the cool water. 

“Where’s Sherlock got to?” John asks a while later, when the couple have calmed down and are playfully poking at each other’s ribs.

Toby glances up towards the house. “Speak of the devil.”

John feels Sherlock approaching behind him before he sees him, and John automatically tenses his back and grips the edge of the pool with both hands.

“You’re safe, John,” Sherlock chuckles, taking a seat next to him, close enough that their legs brush. He’s changed into a gray, long-sleeved henley shirt, and tight black jeans.

“You aren’t to be trusted,” John nudges his shoulder into him.

Sherlock nods agreeably and John huffs a laugh.

“Dinner is served!” 

John glances round just as Alfie is stepping through the glass doors from the house and making his way over to the grill.

“Come on, you minx,” Toby says grandly, standing up with a stretch before reaching down and hoisting Evie up and over his shoulder.

“Put me down, you mental case!” Evie cries as he carries her over to the table.

John smiles at them, turns to Sherlock who is staring down into the water.

“Coming?” John holds out his hand.

Sherlock stares at it a moment, as if seeing one for the first time, before sliding his palm into John’s grasp and they both haul each other up. 

* * *

 

The food is delicious and plentiful, John eats as much as his stomach will allow and laughs along with the others as Alfie tells story after story of all the mad things he got up to when he was at university.

Lily keeps piling Sherlock’s plate with food, but it doesn’t look like he’s touched a thing. He’s sitting between John and Victor, the latter who looks a bit tipsy at this point, and when John is sure everyone’s attention is elsewhere he lightly taps on his hand with his fingertips. When Sherlock looks over in question, John nods pointedly towards his plate. Sherlock blinks at him, shoots him a small glare, but then pops a chip into his mouth.  

Once everyone has had their full, and are all leaning back in their chair with satisfied sighs, multiple, overlapping conversations have begun around the table. 

Victor’s parents begin piling plates up as they speak, Lily standing to take them inside and her husband following with his drink to continue their conversation.

“So how come Jules didn’t come today?” John asks Evie, who is currently being ignored by her boyfriend as the man talks animatedly about football with Victor. 

She guffaws loudly, resting her head on her hand. “He’s not allowed ‘round Victor’s house. Alfie doesn’t like him. Say’s he’s rude.”

John agrees to that readily, glad for it. Is certain there would have been another fight if the boy was present, and not necessarily between Jules and  _ Sherlock _ . 

As Evie begins quizzing John about London life, Sherlock slips away from the table unnoticed.

He’d been quiet throughout the meal, only speaking when directly addressed. John would have been concerned if he didn’t know this was practiced behaviour. As much as Sherlock likes being the centre of attention, social situations as a whole tend to leave him a bit wrong-footed.

“I don’t really go out clubbing,” John says for the third time as Evie babbles away. He’s rather desperate for the loo now, and is waiting for a lull in Victor and Toby’s conversation to ask the boy where the bathroom is.

Evie doesn’t notice his discomfort, or doesn’t care, and asks John  _ again  _ where he would recommend partying in the big city.

“Do you know where-” John starts, and is promptly spoken over by the girl.

_ Oh my god,  _ John thinks in exasperation. Notices Evie’s empty glass.  _ Ah.  _ At this point, she probably doesn’t even realise who she’s talking to.

Baring that in mind, John simply stands up in the middle of her sentence and walks away from the table. 

She’s still jabbering away to thin air when he passes through the glass doors.

The house is quiet, a welcome relief to the boisterous chatting outside. John glances around the empty kitchen curiosuly for a moment, before his bladder complains with a sharp pang and he darts out of the room and into a long hallway.

John pokes his head nosely in between the cracks of open doors as he passes room after room on his journey to the bathroom. The majority are spactious studies and living rooms, and John doesn’t really understand why you would need so many in one house where only three people reside. Seems a bit excessive, but then again what else would you do with an unused space if not fill it with sofas and ornaments?  

“How the other half live,” John murmurs to himself as he passes a bay window where a stone busk of a chiseled man in a soldier’s uniform sits watching him. 

There’s the distinct sound of shuffling feet coming from a room to John’s left, where the door is closed but not latched. John quietly steps over to it, turning his ear towards the tiny crack where the low murmuring of deep voices reaches him. 

As slow as can be, John nudges the door open wider so his eye can peek through the crack. He immediately notices Sherlock, standing with his back pressed against a desk facing the door. A tall body is standing in front of him, too close, and John feels a nauseous sensation roll in his stomach as he takes in the scene.

It’s Alfie, John can see that clearly enough. His hands are on the desk bracketing Sherlock’s hips, and the younger man’s face is pale and wide-eyed, fixated on the other man as he leans closer still. He’s hissing something at Sherlock that John can’t decipher, his tone low and dangerous and not a sound John could imagine the cheerful man making unless he heard it himself. 

When the older man turns to breathe something into Sherlock’s ear, Sherlock’s pale eyes flick towards the door, whether longing for an escape or finally noticing it moving, John isn’t certain. 

John makes a split-second decision, grabs the handle of the door and pulls it back to its original position before loudly twisting it a couple of times and then shoving the door open with his shoulder a few seconds later.

As expected, Alfie is now a good distance away from Sherlock, who has turned his back and is inspecting something on the desk. Alfie is rifling through a filing cabinet a few feet away, and if John didn’t feel so disturbed he would be impressed at the casual air now filling the room. Knows without a doubt that if he hadn’t peeked in two seconds before, there’s no way he would have assumed anything was amiss. 

“I need it back, mind you,” Alfie is chuckling as he produces a piece of paper and holds it out towards Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye.

“I know, you’ll have it back safe and sound tomorrow,” Sherlock replies, turning towards Alfie with a roll of his eyes. He reaches for the paper with such an easy grace, hand completely steady, that for a moment John wonders if he imagined the whole thing. 

Alfie turns towards the door then, must have heard it open but pretending otherwise.

“John! Looking for the loo, were you?” He gives John his friendly grin, and only now John can notice the ice in his black eyes. 

John feels a mixture of panic and rage swirl deep inside him, doesn’t understand what is happening here, no, but very aware that he doesn’t like Alfie Trevor. Not one bit.

“Yeah, sorry. Got a bit lost,” John gives a wide smile, full of teeth, as he stares the man down. 

“It happens,” Alfie nods cheerfully and walks towards him. John tenses, didn’t need to, the man simply pats his shoulder and moves around him towards the door. John’s shoulder burns as if the man were poison.

“There is a bathroom right next to the kitchen, lad,” Alfie admonishes lightly, eyes boring intently into John’s as he passes, a contrast to his chummy expression. The man pauses for a second, and John wonders what he reads in his own face, but then he’s turning away and strolling down the hall.

John watches him, teeth clenched, until the man disappears into the kitchen. John turns, stares at Sherlock who is looking down at the paper in his hand with mild interest. The dark head raises and he blinks at John as if surprised to still see him standing there. His slanted eyes squint a bit, and he takes a small step towards John. 

“Are you alright, John? You look a little pale.”

_ They’re used to this,  _ John realises with a jolt _. They have this dance choreographed flawlessly. _

With difficulty, John clenches his jaw. “Stop it.”

Sherlock blinks again, confused. “Stop what?”

Taking two steps in, John takes Sherlock’s arm and drags him out of the suffocating room and up the hall further away from the kitchen. He chooses an empty room at random and pushes Sherlock inside. Painfully aware that this scene could mimic the one he just witnessed, John purposely leaves the door open and moves further into the room to stand opposite Sherlock, leaving the younger man closer to the exit.

Sherlock is giving him an odd look, like John has completely lost the plot. 

“John?”

Fists clenching and unclenching, John takes a deep breath in through his nose and jerks his head to the side momentarily. He  _ won’t  _ shout. He can’t, not here. 

“What the hell was that?” John asks finally, in a low voice.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asks innocently, eyes flicking to the right in bewilderment and John can’t help but scoff. 

“You’ve always been a good actor, Sherlock, but it doesn’t work on me, not anymore.”

Sherlock looks genuinely lost now. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, John. Maybe have a glass of water? Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He moves to turn away.

“Sherlock. Stop,” John orders. “I won’t drop this.”

Sherlock pauses at the door, glancing back at John and his feigned expression has been replaced by a cold mask.

“Leave it, John.”

John takes a step towards him, anger brimming ominously.

“No, I won’t fucking  _ leave it _ ,” he hisses. “What was he saying to you?”

Sherlock just blinks at him, impassive.

“Sherlock.”

The man ignores him, begins turning away again.

“Sherlock!”

John reaches out to grab at him and Sherlock  _ flinches _ . 

John stops. Slowly lowers his hand, eyes wide. Sherlock’s face is half-turned away but John can clearly recognise the furious expression, his labored breathing . 

“I wasn’t going to..” John trails off, feels ill. 

Sherlock doesn’t move his head, but his eyes drift to the side and direct a look of  _ hatred  _ at John. Fire consumes those silver orbs, one light, one dark.  

Heart thudding, John steps cautiously towards him. When Sherlock just continues to watch him angrily, he ever so slowly reaches out one hand and brings it up to Sherlock’s cheek, cupping it in his palm. John tugs on his face, turning it around to face him gently as his fingertips unintentionally brush the bruise on his jaw. Sherlock’s body doesn’t move, but he allows his head to be turned, glaring at John with an awful viciousness. 

John shifts around to stand in front of him. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” he asks quietly.

The question causes an immediate reaction. Sherlock face crumples, the anger draining out of him all at once and his shoulders slump. John wonders if anyone has ever asked him that. His parents, who turn a blind eye to his misbehavior; coming home at any and all hours of the night, the fights he gets into, his arrests? Victor, who scolds Sherlock like a child at any opportunity? Toby and Evie, who Sherlock refers to only as ‘Victor’s friends’? Mycroft, who isn’t here? Or Eurus, who wouldn’t care?

Everything suddenly seems like a huge mess and John is overcome with the feeling of how utterly  _ alone  _ Sherlock must feel. Surrounded by a great many people, yes, but none of which understand him at all. Who ignore him at best, and muzzle him at worst. Or so John hopes, eyes drawn to bruised skin and defeated eyes.

_ It’s no wonder he’s ‘taken a shine’ to me, Mr Trevor. I can  _ see  _ him. _

Sherlock doesn’t answer his question directly, but gives John everything he needs to know with a soft question of his own.

“Can we go home?” 

John nods. 

* * *

 

John doesn’t let Sherlock out of his sight as they make their way through the house towards the garden. Victor’s mother is washing up in the kitchen, and John utters a quick goodbye as Sherlock ignores her completely and walks through the glass doors. 

John hurries to follow, walking close behind him like a shadow. Alfie is sitting back at the table with the others, laughing at something Toby has said and punching him lightly on the arm. He notices their approach immediately, eyes flicking between them, that stupid grin still adorning his face.

“Find the loo, John?” He calls over.

“All good,” John nods, forcing himself to smile back. “We’re going to make a move though.” 

There’s a resounding cry of disagreement around the table that John ignores, watching Mr Trevor like a hawk as the man’s eyes focus on Sherlock and his smile slowly dims.

John casually moves forward and to the side, effectively blocking the man’s gaze and pointedly looking away when it refocuses on him.

“You can’t go now, it’s not even dark,” Victor pouts, looking disappointed. A flimsy excuse, the sky already a deep pink from the rapidly setting sun.

John nearly loses it when Victor sends Sherlock a small accusatory look when he thinks John isn’t looking. But he holds himself back, announces he actually feels quite ill and Sherlock has offered to take him home, before placing a hand on the small of Sherlock’s back and gently nudging him away towards the gate. 

“Nice to meet you, John,” John hears Alfie call at his back. “I’ll see you soon, Sherlock.” It sounds like a promise and when Sherlock begins to turn back to address him, John tugs him back around and shoves him through the gate. 

“Bit rude, John,” Sherlock imitates his earlier comment with raised eyebrows and a spiteful smirk.

John just shakes his head, not looking at him.

They walk in silence after that, Sherlock deep in thought and John physically biting his tongue to stop himself blurting every thought and question churning in his mind. He gauges Sherlock will talk when he’s ready and waits. 

Sherlock doesn’t talk, however. But after ten minutes of silence, when the sun has fully dropped and stars begin to light up the sky, John feels the cool brush of fingers on the back of his hand. Surprised, he glances over at Sherlock, who is looking directly in front of him with a blank expression but his jaw is clenched tight. Message recieved, John looks back ahead and simply turns the palm of his hand outwards. A second later, thin fingers slide between his own. 

Neither say a word, but they grasp each other’s hands tightly all the way home. 

* * *

 

John had been worried that Sherlock would lock himself in his room as soon as they entered the house, but is pleasantly surprised when Sherlock, still holding his hand, tugs him up the stairs quickly and pushes him into his room. He locks the door behind them with jerky movements, and John doesn’t know who he’s trying to keep out; his parents or his sister. Probably both.

Mr Holmes had called a brief greeting from an unknown room when they had slipped through the door, and they had both mumbled vaguely in reply before scurrying up the stairs. 

Sherlock releases John’s hand and flits around his room like a small tornado, switching on a dim lamp in one corner and sparkling blue fairy lights weaved into his iron headboard. John hadn’t noticed them before, it gives the room a surreal and almost mystical feel, like he’s in a dream. 

Sherlock is grabbing a woolen throw from under his bed and begins rolling it up with manic movements. John watches him wearily, taking a hesitant seat on the edge of the bed. Once tightly rolled, Sherlock walks over to his door and shoves it under the crack before flying over to his window and opening it wide. He then darts over to his desk, reaches a hand under the wood as if searching for something stuck to the underside. After a moment of blind hand flailing, he crouches down and shoves his head under the space, looking up from left to right.

_ “ Fuck’s sake, Eurus _ _,”_ he mutters before standing again with a scowl. He immediately trots over to his bookcase, sliding out a large blue book and dumping on his bed next to John. 

Wondering what on earth he is doing, John watches in bemusement as Sherlock begins manically flicking through the pages until he stops and gives a sigh of relief. John glances over, seeing a small square pocket has been cut out in the pages and a little plastic baggy sits nestled inside.

Sherlock retrieves the bag, closes the book and dumps it carelessly on the floor.    

John has a sinking feeling,  _ really  _ hoping it isn’t what he thinks it is and ready to fly at the boy and begin a well-rehearsed tirade. 

Sherlock crawls fully onto the large bed and sits cross legged, reaching over to grab his jacket which is hanging on a bedpost. He searches in the pockets for a moment and pulls out, not the small familiar box that John was dreading, but a pouch of tobacco, a packet of filters and a sheet of long rizla paper.  

He dumps everything on his sheets, pulls off his boots and chucks them onto the floor, before finally glancing up at John.

“Want some?” 

John looks down at the bag again, recognising the green buds. He nearly laughs in relief.

It’s been a long time since John has smoked marijuana, and he knows he shouldn’t indulge himself, this isn’t really the best time to start experimenting again. But then again, considering the circumstances, maybe it is. 

It’s this thought that makes John say, “Yeah, okay.”

It doesn’t take Sherlock long to roll, after searching in his bedside drawer for a grinder. John kicks off his own shoes and nips quickly into the ensuite to relieve his still-aching bladder while Sherlock is preoccupied with his task. He enters the room again a second later and settles himself comfortably on the bed, stretching his legs out next to one of Sherlock’s bended knees and crossing his ankles. 

Sherlock pulls a purple plastic lighter out of his jacket pocket, lights the end of the spliff and takes a deep pull, holds the smoke in his lungs for a long moment before slowly letting it out. The smoke clouds around his face before it gradually disperses around the room. He passes the cigarette over to John.

After only a second of hesitation, John brings it up to his lips and sucks in the potent-smelling drug. Prides himself in not coughing, and blows it back out after a beat. 

“Strong,” John wheezes, light headed.

Sherlock simply nods, taking it back and blowing smoke up into the air. After a moment, he lets out a little  _ ‘Oh’ _ , holds the blunt between his lips and teddy-bear rolls off to the side, reaching out a hand towards a small plastic radio on his windowsill and taps it on. A loud and abrasive guitar solo accompanied by heavy drums and screeching fills the air and they both wince.

“Ugh,” Sherlock grumbles, quickly lowering the volume before turning the dial through the stations with his thumb until he stops at something softer and poppy. Sherlock, still looking a bit unsatisfied but obviously bored of his current task, shrugs and straightens himself. The quiet music slips seamlessly into the background, relieving the heavy silence. 

“Pass me that mug,” Sherlock demands, pointing at his bedside table. John rolls his eyes but reaches over and hands it to him.

Sherlock takes a small, quick drag, before flicking the ash at the end of the spliff into the mug and then holds them both out for John to take.

They smoke half of the long cigarette, until John’s eyes feel distinctly heavy and his body feels like it’s wrapped up in cotton wool. He’s leaning back on Sherlock’s pillow, Sherlock spread out on his back at the foot of the bed. Sherlock crushes the end of the spliff into the mug to extinguish it before carefully dropping it inside, filter-tip up. He passes it over wordlessly and John places it back on the table to his left. 

John wonders absently if this is what started Sherlock’s addiction, and if that is the case he should feel very ashamed of himself for not only allowing it but also participating. But, at this moment in time, he can’t bring himself to care very much. Which is  _ bad, John, very bad. Bad friend. Not as bad as Victor, though. Victor isn’t a very good friend. _

“He’s alright,” Sherlock mumbles and John panics, absolutely convinced Sherlock can read his mind.  _ Don’t think about anything embarrassing, John. Like Sherlock’s bum.  _ John sniggers at that thought before physically shaking himself and sitting upright and rubbing his face.

“I think I’m high,” John announces in an annoyed grumble.

“Yeah, you’ve been muttering to yourself for a little while now,” Sherlock tilts his head over to him and grins lazily. The movement allows the small rays of the fairy lights to pan over his features and John thinks he looks  _ magical.  _

“You look like a fairy,” John comments matter-of-fact. “My mouth is dry.”

Sherlock’s eyes are sparkling in amusement and he nods over to his bedside cabinet. “There’s a bottle of water there.”

John gratefully helps himself, sloshing the liquid around his mouth before swallowing. He flops down onto his back on the bed next to Sherlock and raises a hand, watching the blue lights hitting his skin as he tilts it slowly back and forth in time with the music.

“We need to talk about earlier,” John murmurs after a moment when Sherlock raises his own hand into the air to imitate him. The lights look more impressive on his ivory skin. 

Sherlock lets out a deep sigh. “Not right now.”

It’s clear to John exactly what Sherlock is doing, delaying the inevitable. He allows Sherlock to distract himself for the time being, knows it won’t be long until John can’t stop himself from blurting the burning questions on his tongue. Or maybe he’s allowing  _ himself  _ to be distracted, not looking forward to the answers. 

John turns his head to look at Sherlock, the blue light hitting his profile and turning his eye a deep navy. 

“So weird, your eye,” John finds himself saying. Sherlock turns his head towards him in question and their noses brush. His face is too close for John to see him clearly now, so he pulls his head back slightly to inspect those mismatched eyes in fascination. 

“Is it?” Sherlock asks, dropping his hand and John belatedly realises his own is still high in the air. He flops it down onto his belly.

“Yeah,” John decides. “Kinda cool, though.  _ You’re  _ kinda cool, though. So it’s fine.”

Sherlock snickers at that and turn his head back towards the ceiling. After a moment, John joins in and soon they both find themselves doubled over in laughter, holding their sides.

“Why are we laughing?” Sherlock wheezes, slapping a hand repeatedly on John’s arm.

“I don’t know,” John cracks up again, breathlessly. 

Once their chuckles die down, Sherlock exhales a deep breath and smiles up at the ceiling. 

“I really like you, John,” he whispers like it’s a great secret.

John looks over at him in surprise. “You do?” He’s never heard Sherlock say something so  honest and, he’s sure Sherlock from home would think, trite, bordering on irrelevant. 

Sherlock nods then starts talking in a rush, “When I first met you, I found you endlessly frustrating. I couldn’t read you at all. Or rather, I  _ could  _ but everything was jumbled up and half of it didn’t make any sense. I  _ still  _ can’t read you, not properly. I’ve never experienced that before. Everything, every _ one _ is a book, John. Facts and details jump out at me whether I want them to or not, can’t be helped. Victor doesn’t like it, sometimes I can’t stop myself from reading out loud, you see, and he gets embarrassed,” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I don’t see why, I’m only-”

“Pointing out what’s already true,” John interrupts with a smile.

Sherlock takes a breath and blinks at him. “Precisely.”

“I know.”

Sherlock moves onto his side, holding his head up with his hand as he peers down at John in wonder. 

“How do you know? How is it you know me so well, when we’ve barely known each other three days?” 

John has absolutely no idea how to answer that, and so he doesn’t. He simply shrugs up at Sherlock’s penetrating gaze and gives a rather flippant smile. 

Sherlock stares at him a moment more before flopping back down onto his back with a grunt. 

The room is spinning very slowly, John realises, and he allows himself to be taken along with it. He feels like he’s floating on the surface of the ocean, and Sherlock is right next to him floating too.

_ We should do this when I get home. Steal some of Mrs Hudson’s ‘herbal remedies’.  _

“It was Eurus.”

It takes a second to register Sherlock has spoken again, then another second to register the words. John tenses. “What was?”

“My eye. She poured a drop of undiluted formic acid into the saline bottle, then threw a handful of gravel into my face. Luckily, I only managed to pour the liquid into my left eye before it started burning.” He shrugs like this is normal behaviour between siblings.

John stares at him. “Why did she do that?”

“To see what would happen? I never asked. I don’t  _ think  _ her intent was to blind me, but I doubt she would have cared much if she had done.”

John can feel that his face is twisted into an exaggerated grimace, can’t seem to righten it. He huffs out a breath. “Your sister is-”

“I love my sister,” Sherlock interrupts with a hint of warning, giving John a side-eyed look.

John knows this, it’s true in  _ his  _ world too. Sherlock had almost immediately forgiven his sister after the whole Sherrinford debacle, that night in fact. John was rather thrown by that, but then again he’s never known Sherlock to hold a grudge against someone he cared about. Expect Mycroft, maybe. He forgave Mary for shooting him pretty much as soon as she had pulled the trigger, for example. 

John tactfully doesn’t finish his sentence. 

“Was she the one who gave you those bruises?” John asks, aiming for a casual tone but he’s not sure if he succeeded. 

“No.”

John nods slowly. 

“Was it Alfie?”

There’s an all-telling pause. Then, “No.”

John suspects he’s lying, but doesn’t push the subject. 

“What was he saying to you earlier? In the study?”

“He was lending me a file-”

“What was he saying to you in the study?” John asks again calmly, speaking over him. He’s not playing this game again.

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a long time, long enough that John suspects he never will, but then, “Victor had told him about me bunking off my community service yesterday. Aflie’s always been a rather strict disciplinarian, and he believes my parents are too lax with me. He sees me as a second son, so basically, in so many words, he was telling me off.” Sherlock’s voice is steady and unconcerned.

John turns his head and regards his profile with a frown. “It didn’t look like that was all he was saying.”

Sherlock shrugs, unperturbed. “It’s of no consequence to me if you believe me or not.”

John is silent for a long while, thinking. Sherlock doesn’t  _ sound  _ like he’s lying, but he is a very good liar. And contrary to what John said earlier in the day, he doesn’t always pick up on it when Sherlock fibs. Mary always could. But Mary isn’t here. Mary isn’t anywhere. 

Alfie had mentioned to John that Sherlock was in need of more discipline, but also that he knew nothing could be done about that. He supposes that could have been all that was to it, Alfie losing his temper when Sherlock had said something cheeky or rude. Letting his frustration get the better of him and leaning in close to hiss into his face…

But that’s just it. Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s hadn’t had that bored, insubordinate look he gets when John scolds him, or his parents scold him, or Greg shouts at him. When he looks back at you with hooded eyes and doesn’t say a word, making you feel like you’re talking to a brick wall. 

No, Sherlock had been pale, wide eyed, lips pinched tightly together, but with the rest of his face eerily void of any emotion.  

Sherlock hadn’t looked bored, Sherlock had looked  _ scared. _

“I don’t believe you,” John decides. 

Sherlock lets out a sigh. “Believe what you want, John. But that’s the truth. What else could it have been about?”

It’s a rhetorical question, obviously, but John seriously considers the question. The alternative could be far more sinister than simple discipline. John doesn’t even want to entertain  _ those  _ thoughts. 

“Does he hit you?” he asks instead.

Sherlock shrugs again. “He has done, in the past. Not severely, of course, but I do have a knack for pushing buttons. He’s apologised profusely, since, and hasn’t raised his hand in years.” 

John contemplates this for a moment. 

“Do your parents know?”

Sherlock looks pensive for a moment before saying, “I don’t know,” in a tone that suggests he’s never thought about that before.

“Victor?”

“I highly doubt he’s ever hit Victor, never having a reason to, so probably not.”

“I don’t like him,” John mutters darkly, not liking the image in his head. Big man, striking a child? He thinks of Rosie, and a wave of rage engulfs him.

“Victor?”

John blinks out of his stupor, gives Sherlock a strange look. “No, you berk. Alfie.”

“Oh.” Sherlock turns his head and grins. 

John finds himself grinning back, wonders if Sherlock deliberately misinterpreted his comment to lighten the mood. 

“I don’t want you going back to that house,” John says with some finality a moment later.

Sherlock gives him an insulted look. “Oh really? And I presume you’re going to stop me?”

“Yes,” John says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Sherlock’s face moves through a plethora of expressions before settling on honest curiosity. “Why do you care so much?”

_ Because I care about you, you twat. I care far too much about you, in fact.  _

John can’t say that, it wouldn’t make any sense here, with this boy he’s ‘barely known three days’. 

He raises a shoulder instead. “I just do.” When Sherlock’s expression doesn’t change, he adopts the tone of a much older man, “You seem like a nice lad.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes with a snigger, punching John on the shoulder. 

“Shut up. Idiot.”

They end up smoking the rest of the blunt a little while later, when it’s very late and the rest of the house is silent and still. They giggle at nothing, and share stories about their childhoods. John doesn’t have to edit anything as he didn’t know Sherlock back then, and so it’s a welcome topic. Sherlock complains about Mycroft, and John listens like it’s the first time he’s hearing it. John talks about his mother’s death, how it was so sudden and how his sister has never recovered. He talks about his dad’s death, too, when he was too small to really remember it. Sherlock asks if John is planning to join the army, and John says ‘No’. John asks what Sherlock is planning to be after university and Sherlock says ‘I have no idea’. 

They find themselves laying side by side on Sherlock’s pillows, the stale smell of marijuana almost completely masked by the earthy smell of the night filtering through the open window by this point. The fairy lights are still on, but the lamp is off, as is the radio. John can hear his own heartbeat in his ears and from this angle, with the blue light caressing his angular face, Sherlock looks like marble. 

“I really like you too, Sherlock,” John whispers into the darkness, feeling incredibly young all of a sudden.

Sherlock’s cheek dimples as he smiles upwards and John reaches out to poke his fingertip into the dip. Sherlock turns his face towards him.

“I think you should stay here forever,” Sherlock’s breath whispers conspiringly over John’s face.

“Me too,” John murmurs back. Finds the words to be nothing but truth. 

Sherlock smiles, and it’s sweet and soft and John can’t help himself from leaning closer and brushing his lips against the upturned mouth, needs to feel that smile connect with his own. 

The kiss is chaste and dry, a brief resting of lips on lips, but when he pulls back Sherlock’s eyes are closed and that smile has deepened.

John tucks a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear, and those odd eyes flutter open once more. 

“Yes, you can definitely stay forever,” Sherlock mutters with a smirk and the combined sound of two breathless snickers fill the blue-hued room before drifting with the wind out of the window and into the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hello to me on my tumblr! Or if you have any questions, I am more than happy to answer them.  
> https://bellegeorgia.tumblr.com/  
> I'm actually being fairly active on it now, which is a bizarre turn of events.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's probably heaps of grammar mistakes, so I apologise for that. Also the late update-life got in the way. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter, again thank you all for commenting! It truly brightens my day <3

John blinks his eyes open, his nose cold, his legs too. But his chest, his stomach, his arms, they are all warm. It’s early, too early. Birds are singing outside the open window, where a cool breeze is drifting into the room accompanied by the gradually lightening streaks of oranges and pinks panning across the carpet. Dark patches of the night are still lingering around the edges of the window. He can’t have been asleep long.

John turns his head, yawning, looks down into the soft dark curls on his chest. His mind is still clouded with sleep, and it’s so quiet he could fall back into unconsciousness at any moment.

Somewhere during the night, both boys had kicked off their jeans, leaving their legs bare and free. John can’t remember when they fell asleep.

Sherlock is laying on top of him, head nestled under John’s chin, his long arms wrapped around the strong torso, the small of his back pale where his shirt has risen up.

Blinking heavily, John slides one hand slowly up Sherlock’s back, cups the back of his head. It’s warm under his palm, and he simply holds.

Sherlock stirs, his face rolling into John’s shirt for a moment, John feels his hot breath penetrate the material before he sighs in his sleep and turns his head back to the side and settles, still, once more.

John looks down at his peaceful face, young and smooth. His dark eyelashes cast a shadow across his cheekbones. John reaches out to brush the tips of his fingers against the silky skin, soft and warm. John allows the tips to wander across the bridge of his straight nose, down to the plump lips, parted slightly. Warm air puffs across his skin, and John absently strokes the bottom lip gently.

Eyes heavy, John closes them with a deep sigh as he dips a finger slightly inwards to press the tender flesh against a sharp tooth. Feels the tip of a soft tongue flick forward, Sherlock’s body instinctively tasting the intrusion. John retracts his finger, rubs the wet digit across the lips under his touch before sliding his hand away, lazily stroking at curls with the hand still holding Sherlock’s head to his chest.  

Sherlock stirs again, murmuring something incomprehensible. John wraps his free arm around thin shoulders, feels Sherlock shiver.

He reaches out blindly until his hand makes contact with a blanket down the side of the bed, drags it up over the body on top of him, wraps them into a warm cocoon.

_“John…”_

It’s not even a whisper, an exhale of breath at most, and John flutters his eyes open for a second to peek at Sherlock’s closed eyelids. He could have imagined the sound, the soft sigh from a dreaming mind.

John lets his eyes drift shut once more.

* * *

 Many hours later, John wakes again, this time on his side, face buried into the back of a warm neck.

One arm is wrapped loosely around Sherlock’s waist, the other laying straight across the pillow. His fingers are numb where Sherlock’s head has cut off the blood circulation to his hands, head heavily resting on his bicep.  

John sucks in a deep breath into his nose, the smell of coconut and smoke filling his nostrils. He flexes his fingers, rests his lips against the skin in front of his face.

The memory of last night makes his eyes snap open again, he pulls back. Takes into account where he is. _When_ he is.

Oh god.

They had kissed. He had kissed Sherlock. He _kissed_ Sherlock.

Yes, it was small and chaste, could be explained away by being high and tired. But Sherlock’s soft face in the ocean lights, his small smile…

John swallows. It isn’t right, not really. Nothing is right, here. It _felt_ right. Like it was many years coming, in a way. But John’s only known _this_ Sherlock less than a week.

John wonders what Sherlock would do, back at home, if John reached forward and rested his lips against his. Silencing harsh words. How would Sherlock react? Push him away? It’s a strong possibility. John can imagine the scene, the demands of _‘What the hell are you doing? I_ told _you, John, I don’t_ do _that! Why did you-’_

John stops those thoughts quickly, cringing.

Besides, does he even _want_ to kiss that Sherlock? Sure, the man is attractive, John has always thought so. But that doesn’t mean anything. Mary used to go on about how _‘pretty’_ Sherlock is, but he’s confident that didn’t mean _she_ wanted to kiss him. Hopes not anyway. Not that it matters now.  

Sherlock lets out a little snore, shifts a little in front of him, edging backwards into the warmth of John’s body and causing his bum to nestle flush against John’s crotch.

John doesn’t even want to _think_ about the age gap between them, regardless of the body he now possesses. Makes him feel a little dirty.

 _This_ Sherlock makes him feel like a teenager again. Flustered, excited, aroused. He wonders if Sherlock from home has ever made him feel like that and nearly snorts out loud.

Of course he has. From the very first day.

Even so, it feels different. With his older friend, it was always the cases, the chases and fights. Getting into trouble together and risking their lives. Terrifying and glorious.

But it hasn’t been like that for a while. A long time. Since Sherlock came back, to be honest. They tried to get back there, to the relationship they had before and it was almost accomplished. But it hadn’t been the same.

John wonders, now, if that’s because he wouldn’t let it.

He forgave Sherlock, yes, because he had to. On the train, believing they were about to die. And the thought of Sherlock’s last imagine of John being one of anger and resentment was painful. So he had forgiven him. And he had believed it, at the time.

But maybe he hadn’t after all.

The awful blame he put at Sherlock’s door, after Mary had died, it hadn’t been logical. The _fury_ he had felt, god, the _pain_ of it. It was an accumulation, a projection. It must have been.

And Sherlock, jesus _Sherlock,_ he had laid there in a blood of his own blood, blood John had spilt, and just _took it_. Like he, too, believed the punishment was warranted.

His eyes, already swelling and bloodshot, had looked up at John with such agonising guilt, and he just _took it._

Maybe it wasn’t guilt over Mary’s death at all, maybe he always knew he wasn’t to blame for that. Because, admittedly yes, he simply _wasn’t_. But maybe it was everything else.

Because that look, _that look,_ had been the same one he had given John on the train. Desperate. Pleading. Then resigned.

John squeezes his eyes shut, wonders how he has been so blind, sucks in a painful breath.

_“I’m sorry..”_

John can’t stop the whisper from passing his lips, wishing for the first time that he was laying here with _his_ Sherlock. The one who really needs to hear it.

“Don’t apologise,” comes a sleepy murmur.

John blinks, comes back to himself.

“Huh?”

“Your erection.”

John freezes for a second, then pulls away with a gasp, rolling onto his back.

“Oh god. _Shit_. Fuck-I’m sorry!”

Sherlock rolls over too, yawning and rubbing at his eyes with one fist. “I said it’s fine.”

John covers a hand over his face, feels the burning under his palm.

“What time is it?”

John peeks through his fingers at the clock on the wall, blinks in surprise. “We slept late, it’s almost eleven.”  

“Huh,” Sherlock lets out a little puff, stretching his arms above his head and letting out a sigh of content when his joints crack. He turns his face towards John, raises a teasing eyebrow.

“Looks like you missed your bus, again.”

“I thought I was staying forever?” John smirks a little, a contrast to his quickening pulse.

A slow gradual smile tilts Sherlock’s lips, and John’s eyes are drawn to them as a hazy image of fingertips softly brushing that mouth fills his mind. A bit embarrassed, he quickly looks away.

“You’re late for work.”

Sherlock blinks lazily at him. “Ah, so I am. Suppose it would be rather redundant of me to go in today, now.”

John huffs a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

Sherlock yawns around a grin, then sits up, rubbing his palms over his face.

John’s eyes follow the curve of his back, watches the sharp shoulder blades shift under his shirt.

“About yesterday-” he begins tentatively. Stops. Doesn’t really know where he was going with that.

“When you kissed me?” Sherlock prompts lightly, scrubbing a hand in his hair and making it stand up in every direction.

John swallows, twists his fingers together where they rest on his stomach.

“Yeah. That.”

When John doesn’t continue, feeling a bit like a coward, Sherlock glances over his shoulder at him expectedly.

“Yes?”

“How are we...feeling about that?” John asks, grimacing a little at his choice of words.

Sherlock gives him a hooded look, flicks his eyes up and down John’s body in a considering manner. He shrugs.

“It was okay.”

John blinks, darts his eye up to Sherlock’s face. When their eyes meet, Sherlock shrugs again with utter nonchalance.

“Oh. Right.” John frowns, feeling somewhat wrongfooted, not expecting that answer. He supposes maybe he’s been overthinking this. Always tends to do that when it comes to Sherlock.

“If you could even call it a kiss,” Sherlock continues casually, inspecting his thumbnail.

John’s eyes flick up to him again, a bit affronted. “Okay..”

“I mean, as far as kisses go, that was hardly something to write home about.”

“Yeah, alright,” John snaps in irritation, sitting up and glancing around for his jeans.

“Really rather unremarkable, a true reflection of your character-”

“I get it!” John interrupts, shooting Sherlock a glare. Spies a glint of amusement in his pale eyes. John squints at him, suspicious.

“Definitely something I will have forgotten about, come an hour or so,” Sherlock says airily, lips twitching.

The penny drops. “You little shit!” John cries, lunging at him and knocking him flat on the bed. Sherlock lets out a surprised bark of laughter, trying half-heartedly to squirm away as John pokes sharp fingers into his ribs and waist.

“Stop! _Ow_ , John!” Sherlock cries with a smile, grabbing onto wrists only to have them tugged out of his grasp a second later. John pinches at his skin with determination, and Sherlock shoves at his arms. “Get off, man!”

John grins, rolling Sherlock onto his back and hovering over his face, hands bracketing the disheveled head. The other boy stares up at him, a bit breathless.

“Unremarkable, eh?” John clarifies.

“ _Mundane_ ,” Sherlock nods solemnly.

“My poor ego,” John pouts, tilting his head down. His breath hitches when Sherlock’s eyes flick down to his lips.

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Sherlock murmurs lowly, sliding a hand up John’s arm to rest on his shoulder.

“I may never recover,” John whispers, staring at Sherlock’s pink tongue as it brushes against his full bottom lip. His long fingers edge across John’s shoulder to the base of his neck, fiddle with the short hair there. It feels nice.

“What ever shall we do-”

Sherlock’s sentence is cut off, for as he speaks his fingers knead into the muscles of the neck under his fingertips, causing a sharp pang to shoot through John, and then the older man can’t stop himself from leaning down the rest of the way and capturing those smirking lips with his own.

Sherlock moans into the kiss immediately, fingers tightening in John’s hair. Their mouths slide together roughly, and it’s completely different from the small kiss they shared last night. This feels desperate and rushed, lips parted sloppily as they pant into each others mouths.

John’s right hand reaches out to grasp at Sherlock’s jaw, fingers tucking under his neck where his head is laying on the mattress. He tilts the face under his palm slightly, and Sherlock allows it before brushing his tongue against John’s bottom lip.

John groans, shifting his body to slot a leg between Sherlock’s open thighs as he licks into the hot mouth under him. Sherlock slides his other hand up into John’s hair, tugs at it and nips lightly at his lip with sharp teeth.

“ _God, Sherlock,”_ John hisses, his mind a haze of adrenaline, can’t really believe this is happening. Doesn’t want to _think,_ can hardly do that at all when Sherlock breaks away for a breath and begins biting his way down John’s jaw, licking away the sting with that clever tongue.

“Wanted to do this-since I met you,” Sherlock breathes quietly, letting out a small gasp when John pulls his head away and reaching down to suck harshley at the skin over his pulse point.

“ _Ugh_ , me too, me too,” John pants into his neck, not even knowing if the truth of that admission is directed to a few days ago, or many years.

Sherlock tilts his head to capture John’s lips again in a bruising kiss, one hand sliding out of his hair and down his back. His hand comes to rest against John’s arse, and he squeezes the flesh, bringing John’s hips down to slot against his own.

They both gasp when their clothes erections brush teasingly, and Sherlock immediately arches up into the heat. John is blown away by his boldness, always suspected Sherlock to be shy in a sexual situation, although it goes against his character in everything else he does. Always imagined him to be flustered and uncoordinated, fluttering fingertips and hesitant touches, nervous and unsure.

But then again, this isn’t _his_ Sherlock. Not the one who John is fairly confident is still a virgin.

Steady fingers toy at the hem of John’s boxers, and the man sucks in a breath of anticipation when they dip fractionally under the waistband.

Suddenly, the sharp sound of the door handle twisting causes both boys to start violently, and Sherlock rips his hand away as John dives upright, heart in his throat and rapidly scrambling away. Sherlock sits up quickly, staring at the door with wide eyes as they both pant as quietly as possible.

The door doesn’t open, and then a second later someone bangs a fist against the wood.

“Open up, Sherlock!” Victor’s voice calls through the door.

John turns his panicked expression to Sherlock, who stares back at him for a long moment before they both dissolve into silent laughter.

 _“Fuck,”_ John sniggers breathlessly, rubbing at his face roughly.

Sherlock takes a few deep breaths, the pink staining his cheekbones gradually cooling into a normal colour.

“Why is your door locked?” Victor asks, banging on the door again.

“Argh, ‘kay! S’one sec,” Sherlock grumbles loudly, adopting the tone of someone who’s only just woken up and hasn’t just been engaged in a thorough snogging session.  

He climbs off the bed, shoves at John shoulders to lay him down again against his pillows. Then stops, casting an eye down his body. He smirks slightly, before grabbing a pillow and chucking it at John’s crotch.

John wills himself not to flush, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock’s tented boxers in turn. Sherlock casts a quick eye around his room, darts over to the floor and picks up a sheet that was kicked away during the night. He wraps it around his shoulders, effectively hiding the evidence, and pads over to the door where Victor has taken up knocking a annoyingly repetitive pattern onto the wood.

John quickly rolls onto his side, pretending to still be half-asleep, as Sherlock unlocks the door and swings it open with a feigned yawn.

“Finally,” Victor grumbles, sauntering into the room without hesitation. “It smells weird in here.”

John bites his lip, stirs pointedly, and Victor starts a little when he notices him.

“John! Why are-wait,” Victor looks between John and Sherlock, then the door. He raises an eyebrow and a slow smirk tilts his lips.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, closing the door again and wanders back over to the bed, flopping down next to John, who sits up cautiously and rubs at his eyes.

“We were smoking last night,” Sherlock nods over to the mug on his bedside table where the ash from their spliff still sits inside. “That’ll be the smell.”

“ _Ooh_ ,” Victor nods slowly, looking like he half-believes him. But he takes a quick peek into the mug, seems satisfied enough, then collapses onto the bed too, sitting cross-legged at the foot.

“You feeling better today, John?”

John blinks, confused for a second before remembering his excuse for leaving Victor’s house early last night. “What? Oh yes. Much. Ta.”

“Good, because it’s friday and we’re all going out tonight and you two are coming too. No buts, Sherlock!”

Sherlock groans, John sighs and Victor grins at them. Then he looks closer at Sherlock and frowns.

“What happened to your neck?”

John darts a sharp look at Sherlock, who to his credit gives Victor a convincingly innocent look, and notices with a pang the deep purple love bite on his neck he had only moments ago sucked into the skin.

Before he can answer, Victor is giving Sherlock a rueful look. “I swear, you’re always covered in bruises.” He shakes his head, eyes now trained on the older, now yellowing, bruise on the other side of his neck.

“Clumsy,” Sherlock states camly, avoiding John’s eyes.

“I know,” Victor chuckles, and John really has to wonder at the boy’s intelligence, if he’s ever actually _met_ Sherlock.

“Well come on you two lazy bones, up! It’s nearly midday and the sun is shining!”  

* * *

 “I’m gunna get some chips, anyone want to share?”

They’re wandering aimlessly down the high street once more, Victor in a particularly perky mood. Sherlock sunk into a deep sulk pretty much as soon as they had left the house a little while ago, and John is half-tempted to join him. A vague air of frustration lingers in John’s veins, his body irritated at the interruption earlier even if he feels like he should be a bit relieved.  

“Yeah, go on then,” John nods as Victor ambles up to the door of a chippy.

“Sherlock?” Victor casts a questioning look at his friend.

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but before he can utter a word a loud shout from down the street causes them all to look up.

“HOLMES!”

“Oh god,” Sherlock mutters, pulling a face at the small figure of Mr Jones leaning out of his shop doorway with a furious expression.

“I thought you said he gave you the day off?” Victor frowns, suspicion lilting his tone.

“Yeah, I lied,” Sherlock shrugs, shameless.

“Oh, for-”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Get your arse in here now, boy!”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Go on, I’ll meet you outside in a moment.”

He gives John a small quick quirk of his lips and John grins back at him, watching him stroll leisurely away.

“I swear, it’s like he _doesn’t_ want his community service to end,” Victor huffs, tugging John into the shop.

“Alright there, Victor?” The man behind the counter smiles over at them, wiping his hands down his apron.

The auburn haired boy, obviously a regular customer, begins chatting amicably to the older man about nothing in particular, throwing in an order for a large portion of chips in the middle of a question about the other man’s wife.   

John wanders over to the window, watching passing families absently.

“Sherlock back yet?” Victor asks a few minutes later, ambling up to John with a paper package in his hand.

“Nope.”

They head outside, nodding their thanks to the man, and hover outside the shop window, leaning their backs on the glass.

“Here,” Victor passes over a small wooden fork, unwrapping the paper digging in with gusto.

“Cheers.”

John munches away, enjoying the vinegary lunch.

“So, what were you two up to last night?” Victor asks knowingly, giving John a side-eyed look.

John chuckles easily around a chip. “Not what you’re thinking.”

“Uhuh,” Victor grins. “Break his heart, etcetera etcetera…”

John rolls his eyes with a smile, opens his mouth to retort. Suddenly, he hears the sound of distant yelling, and looks past Victors shoulder. Further up the street, a figure is sprinting towards them.

“What the-?”

Victor spins around, squinting. As the figure gets closer, John recognises with a start that it’s Sherlock, and his repeated bellow of ‘run! Run! RUN!’ gets louder and louder as he approaches.

“What on earth?” Victor mutters in bewilderment, chip hanging from his mouth.

John darts a look at him, then back at Sherlock, then notices another figure, much bigger even though further away, also sprinting towards them behind the boy.

John looks back at Victor, shrugs, twists into the opposite direction and begins running in the opposite direction.

Sherlock catches up with him a second later, dragging a spluttering Victor by the arm.

“Holmes, you fucking shit! Get back here!”

John glances over his shoulder, recognising the one chasing them as the guy from the pub.

“Alex!?” Victor cries, also looking back and stumbling, dropping his chips.

“Don’t stop, just run!” Sherlock yells, shoving Victor upright as the fly down the street.

They’re fast approaching a small crowd and Sherlock doesn’t slow down, he swerves through the people effortlessly avoiding the bodies and John darts behind him, using the pathway he’s created with practiced ease. He can hear Victor shouting apologies as he crashes into shoulders.

“You’re _dead_ , Sherlock!”

“Jesus!” Victor yells, voice high in panic.

“Have to catch me first!” Sherlock shouts over his shoulder, grinning maniacally. He catches John’s eye and John can feel an answering grin pulling at his features.

They break through the staring crowd and Sherlock pitches to the right suddenly, down a thin alleyway. Without stopping, he lunges at a low wall, planting a hand on the brick and swinging himself over the top and dropping back down on the other side.

John mimics him, Victor just behind, and takes immense pleasure on how easy it is to scale the wall with his younger legs.

They find themselves in a garden, a child’s swing in one corner. Sherlock sprints to the other side towards another low wall, jumps over it too.

An old man is kneeling in soil a few feet away, staring with wide eyes as they run past him.

“Afternoon!” John nods at him, hears Sherlock’s bark of laughter in front of him.

They jump over three more walls, until they get to yet another empty garden, where Sherlock then stumbles to a stop, grabs John and Victor’s arms and hauls them over to a shed and pulls them inside.

Victor collapses into a crouch, while Sherlock and John stand with their hands on their knees, the sound of heavy panting filling the small room.

After a moment, Sherlock looks up at John and they both burst into breathless laughter.

Victor raises his head slowly, staring at them as if they’ve gone mad.

“What the fuck!?” he cries, and Sherlock reaches over quickly to clamp a hand over his mouth, eyes still sparkling with mirth.  

“Shh!”

Victor rips his head away, looking furious, but doesn’t speak again.

They allow themselves a moment to get their breaths back, Sherlock sliding to the floor, resting his back on the wall, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

“Sherlock?” John whispers pointedly, shaking out his legs.

Pale eyes open and Sherlock quirks a smile at him. He opens his mouth to speak, before sucking in a small gasp and scrambling over to the door, crawling on his knees.

“What-?” Victor starts.

Sherlock flaps a hand in his direction vigorously to silence him, eyes peeking out of the space.

John hears the faint sound of feet landing on soft grass a few feet away and drops into a crouch, holding his breath. He shuffles forward silently, hovers over Sherlock’s body to glance out of the shed, resting his chin against the inky curls on the top of Sherlock’s head.

Alex is standing in the garden, face twisted and teeth bared as he pants heavily. He turns in a slow circle, as if sensing their presence. As he gradually twists his head in their direction, Sherlock and John dart behind the flaking wood. John can feel his heart in his throat, his pulse jumping with adrenaline and excitement. He glances behind them, where Victor is sat on the floor with a wide eyes. John shoots him a lopsided grin, and Victor shakes his head at him in dismay.

There’s a distinct sound of shuffling feet outside, and John feels Sherlock tense against him. John darts a look around the shed, noticing an axe. He nudges Sherlock’s ribs and the boy looks at him. He nods towards the axe with a questioning look, and Sherlock follows his eyes. He looks back at John with a considering expression.

 _“No!”_ Victor hisses quietly, noticing their silent exchange.

The soft steps are drawing closer, agonisingly slow.

Sherlock spots something hanging on the wall and jerks his head towards it, looking back at John with a raised eyebrow. John glances up, sees a chainsaw, and has to clamp both hands over his mouth to muffle a laugh. He shakes his head at Sherlock, who is grinning at him, and he points towards a plank of wood on the floor near their feet. Sherlock gives him a mock-disappointed look before leaning carefully forward with a hand extended. He bites his bottom lip as his fingers brush the wood and he grasps it gently. It looks fairly heavy, and they all freeze when it scrapes loudly across the floor as he pulls it slowly towards him.

The sound of rustling grass outside stops, as if Alex, too, has frozen. Sherlock edges the wood bit by bit nearer, and John reaches out to grab the other end when it’s close enough and helps lift it from the floor.

“Sheeerlooock...” comes a low sing-song voice from outside and Victor sucks in a tiny gasp.

Sherlock raises the wood over his shoulder, shifting in his crouched position to rest his back against the wall next to the door. He slowly edges himself upright, and John silently crab-walks to perch by his feet, ready to grab at the pair of approaching legs.

“Sherlo-”

“OI! What on earth do you think you’re doing!?”

They all jump, startled, as a woman’s voice is heard screeching from down the other end of the garden.

“This doesn’t concern you, ma’am,” comes Alex’s drawling voice, a dangerous edge to his tone.

The woman doesn’t seem to care. “Like hell it doesn’t, get out of my garden!”

“I’m looking for-” Alex begins, starting to sound a little flustered as the sound of rapidly approaching feet drifts towards them.

“I don’t give a rats arse, bugger off before I call the police!”

“But-”

“NOW!”

The shout is right by the door now, and John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock when he hears the distinct sound of a body being shoved and wrestled with.

There’s a loud yelp and then silence.

They all stop breathing, dread filling their chests as they stare at each other with wide eyes. Then, the footsteps start again, this time walking quickly towards the shed and they all tense. Sherlock raises the plank of wood higher, John clenches his jaw and tenses the muscles of his thighs, Victor plants his hands on the floor ready to propel himself forward.

The feet stop just shy of the doorway.

“If anyone is holding a weapon, I would advise you drop it as I don’t fancy getting hit in the face.”

The three boys blink. Then simultaneously let out a breath of relief, shoulders slumping. Sherlock lowers the wood.

“I’m entering the shed...now,” the feminine voice drones before a grey head pops around the doorframe. Brown eyes, hooded with wrinkles, assess the room and flick between the three boys with an unimpressed look. They rest on Sherlock and the rest of the woman appears, arms folded across her chest.

“Mr Holmes. Why am I not surprised?”

Sherlock gives her a sheepish grin.

“Hello, Mrs Jones.”

* * *

“You’re going to get us all killed one of these days, Sherlock!” Victor hisses across the table as John takes a sip of tea.

Mrs Jones is muttering to herself on the other side of her large kitchen, jerkily slicing up a cake.

The old woman, who John imagines has a very warm face when she’s not scowling as she has been doing the last ten minutes, is a tiny force to be reckoned with. Turns out, she had all but dragged the thug from her garden, shoving him bodily over the fence and into the neighbouring garden, where he had promptly galloped away.

She had glared at each boy hiding in her shed, making them all shrink back from her eyes. Then had grasped Sherlock and John by the ears, snapped at Victor to follow, and marched them into her kitchen before shoving them down into seats and turned to switch on the kettle.

John thinks she’s fantastic.

“Don’t be dramatic, Victor,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, unconcerned.

Victor turns a disbelieving stare towards John, who blinks at him from behind his cup, and the boy lets out an incredulous puff of air.

“I’m sorry, was I the only one who just got chased down by a maniac who was threatening to _kill us!?”_

“Me, not you,” Sherlock replies calmly.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure he would have just patted John and I on the back and asked us round for tea!”

“We had the situation under control.”

“Did we fuck!”

“Language, Mr Trevor,” Mrs Jones scolds, slamming a plate down in front of the boy. “Eat your cake.”

Victor stares up at her as if she’s demented then stuffs a forkful of cake into his mouth to stop himself blurting out anything else, probably that exact thought. John sniggers.

“I don’t know what you’re laughing at, young man,” the old woman snaps, shoving another plate in front of John.

John mutters an apology, averting his eyes down towards the large slice in front of him.

“Is it carrot?” Sherlock asks innocently as a third plate is slapped down on the wood next to his cup.

Mrs Jones squints her eyes at him, unimpressed.

Sherlock maintains the eye contact for an impressive four seconds before he, too, lowers his gaze with a slight grimace.

The woman drops into the chair at the head of the table and surveys the boys steadily, one after the other.

“Someone better start explaining in the next two seconds, or no one is leaving this house with fully functioning limbs.”

John doesn’t doubt the threat for a second and everyone immediately turns their eyes to Sherlock, who shoots John and Victor a betrayed look.

No one speaks for a long moment, and Mrs Jones’ hand slowly reaches out towards a rolling pin in the middle of the table. She fixes her eyes on John, who leans as far back in his chair as it will allow, watching her warily but keeping his mouth shut.

Her eyes then flick over to Victor, who jerks in alarm and bites his lip. He glances at Sherlock, at John, before staring at her hand as it closes around the wood.

“Stay strong, Victor,” Sherlock murmurs quietly.

Sensing his weakness, the old woman narrows her eyes at the boy and gradually raises the pin into the air.

Victor’s eyes widen in alarm, he grimaces and blurts in a rush, “Sherlock took something from Alex D and he wants it back!”

“Victor!” Sherlock cries in outrage.

Mrs Jones lowers her arm again, looking satisfied and places the pin back on the table before turning those fierce eyes onto Sherlock again.

“Ah, I see.”

The three boys all hold their breath, waiting for the inevitable comment about The Dog Incident. But it doesn’t come.

Instead, the woman leans back in her chair and takes a sip of tea.

“What did you take?” she asks conversationally instead, and they all let out a breath.

“He won’t tell us,” Victor mutters in irritation.

“I wasn’t asking _you_ , Mr Trevor,” she shifts narrowed eyes back towards the boy, who shrinks back in his chair. She turns back to Sherlock expectantly.

“Nothing,” Sherlock murmurs, a bit petulantly.

Mrs Jones looks doubtful, but to John’s surprise, she doesn’t push the point.

“I’d rather you didn’t sort out your personal business with thugs in my garden, mister,” she scolds, pointing a fork in Sherlock’s direction.

He nods an apology in reply, looking a bit relieved.

Mrs Jones gives him a long, considering look before asking, “Shouldn't you be working in the shop today?”

Sherlock opens his mouth, closes it again.

“Yes, he bloody well should,” Victor says disapprovingly, shooting Sherlock a glare.

The woman’s eyes drift over to Victor, gives him a deep penetrative look. “You should have more loyalty to your friends,” she states stoically. “It’s an unattractive trait.”  

Victor flushes a deep red and stares down at the table. John raises his eyebrows a bit, glancing over towards Sherlock, whose lips are twitching.

“For compensation, you boys can wash up the rest of my dishes. And your own, of course. Well? Hop to!”

The three boys stand quickly, but a wrinkled hand reaches out to grab John’s arm.

“Not you, you can keep me company while I finish my tea.”

John sits back down, watching as Sherlock and Victor head over to the sink on the other side of the room, bashing each others shoulders as they go.

When he looks back, Mrs Jones is giving him a contemplative look.

“You must be the new boy. Joseph?”

“John, ma’am,” he corrects politely, taking a gulp of hot tea.

She nods, looking him up and down in a manner that reminds John of Sherlock.

“You look older than the others,” she points out mildly, popping a piece of cake into her mouth.

“I’m twenty-three,” John affirms.

“Hm,” is all she says, squinting at him.

Feeling a bit unsettled, John sends a quick searching look down a his hands, relieved to find them still smooth with youth.  

He casts around for something to say, the distant sound of the other two boys bickering drifting over to them.

“It was nice of you not to mention the dog thing, I know how much Sherlock is-”

“Sherlock didn’t take my dog,” she interrupts with hooded eyes.

John blinks. “Pardon?”

She raises a gray eyebrow. “Sherlock’s didn’t take my dog,” she repeats patiently.

“He didn’t?” John asks, confused.

“No. I tried explaining it to the police, but they seemed pretty set on his guilt. Partly evidence, partly due to his previous convictions, and partly because the idiot boy made a thoughtless comment about an affair one of them was having with a babysitter.” She rolls her eyes.

John frowns. “How do you know it wasn’t Sherlock?”

“Because I was there and I saw the person hopping over the fence with my Baldwin. My eyesight isn’t what it was, but I could see clearly enough that it was someone much smaller than Sherlock’s lanky frame.” She takes a sip of tea.

“But I thought he admitted to it?”

“Oh, he did. Which makes me think it was probably that odd sister of his. Euros, is it?”

John shakes his head distractedly. “Eurus.”

“Stupid name.”

John doesn’t comment, thinking that’s a bit unfair considering the woman named her dog _Baldwin_.  

“So, you think he took the blame?” John clarifies, eyes flicking over to Sherlock, who is whipping Victor’s bum with a tea towel as the other boy attempts to jump out of the way without spilling water all over the floor. He aims a kick at Sherlock, who side-steps it with a laugh.

“Apparently,” she shrugs, unconcerned.

After a moment of silence, she follows John’s gaze and watches the boys at her sink.

“He’s a troubled soul, that one,” she comments lowly, and John glances back at her. Her face is impassive, but her eyes portraying an emotion John can’t identify as they stare at the tall teen across the room.

“He is,” John murmurs, knows this far too well.

Mrs Jones looks back towards John, reads his expression. She nods.

“I’ve known him since he was a boy. He’s always been the same.”

John frowns at this, wondering how a young child could be considered a ‘troubled soul’. Sherlock from home probably could have been described as such, after his friend was murdered. But _this_ Sherlock?

“Why do you think that is?” John asks, curious.

“I have my theories,” she mutters, eyes trained back on the two boys, who are now full-out chucking handfuls of water at each other.

Mrs Jones stands abruptly. “Oi! Watch my floor!” She marches over towards the sink.

John watches on, brows furrowed deeply, as the old woman swats both boys over the head with the back of her hand.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delayed update-writer's block and life intervened. 
> 
> Happy Mother's Day to all mothers!! <3

The heavy bassline is thumping a nostalgic rhythm like a heartbeat in John’s burning throat, the sickly sweet tang of whisky and coke on his tongue. Too-bright coloured lights are panning repeatedly into his eyes and if John wasn’t already quite tipsy, he is sure he would be hating it. As it goes, he’s surprisingly enjoying himself; the pulsing sweaty bodies surrounding him and the wide grins of his new friends as they grab onto each others arms and drag each other along to the music. John can feel himself smiling and laughing along with them, alcohol numbing his senses into nothing but silly happiness and a particular giddy excitement he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager.

The last time he was out at a club had also been with Sherlock, an irony not unrecognised, but they had both felt their age with the unfamiliar pouding music accompanied by pounding headaches. When they had got home, and played that stupid name game, that had been when John had really started to enjoy himself. As much as he claimed the night was a disaster, and really, it had been, John had been rather touched by the gesture of the chosen locations and had been secretly glad Sherlock hadn’t invited anyone else.

The night did have some true highlights that still make John chuckle now: dragging a petulant Sherlock away from a fight about ash of all things, stumbling down the street arm in arm and singing an old folk song they somehow both knew the words to, Sherlock’s baffled expression when a young man asked him to dance approximately two seconds before they realised they were in a gay bar, then the young man’s baffled face when John had grabbed Sherlock’s arm and tugged him abruptly away, Sherlock slurring about something or other while their bodies pressed warmly together on the foot of the stairs, Sherlock’s softly lit face smiling across at John from his chair with his own name framed by his curly fringe on his forehead, Sherlock shouting at a stranger to not contaminate the crime scene before throwing up all over the carpet, giggling helplessly as Greg shoved them both into the back of his police car... All distorted memories, one overtaking the other like a badly edited film.

So yes, as much as it _had_ been a disaster, it had also been everything John would have wanted in a stag night. Just him and his best friend, getting horrendously drunk together, stumbling into an adventure, and making thorough fools of themselves.

John had never seen Sherlock drunk before, had seen him feign intoxication many times for cases, but as much as John liked a drink, Sherlock hardly ever indulged with him. John supposes it isn’t really his drug of choice.

Best not think about that now.

John glances over Victor’s jerking shoulder towards the toilets where Sherlock had disappeared to a little while ago.

 _This_ Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to drink to excess either, having downed two drinks in the short time they had been there and then switching to favour water. John was on his fifth already, the others keeping up admirably. Mr Holmes had slipped John a handful of cash with a wink as they were leaving the house, and John had gone to protest before the man had simply walked away mid-sentence. Originally, John had planned on keeping the money safe in his pocket until tomorrow morning and then handing it back with a thank you, but once Victor had offered to buy him a drink John had been overcome with a pathetic need to pay everyone back for their generosity from the past few days and had offered to buy a round instead. After that, it had pretty much been a downward spiral of poor impulse control that John knew he would regret come the morning.

John laughs as Toby wraps his arms around Evie’s waist and spins her around and around on the dance floor until she pulls away looking a little green in the face and stumbles until the man catches her again.

“You look good.”

John starts, darting a look over his shoulder where Sherlock has materialised behind him, murmuring in his ear loud enough to be heard over the music but quiet enough so no one else hears. Large hands brace themselves on John’s hips and he sucks in a little breath. Sherlock’s thumbs slide into his belt loops, tugging playfully at the tight denim.

Sherlock had thrown a new outfit at him when they had got home to change earlier in the day; tight black jeans and a plain grey t-shirt that clings to John’s torso like a second skin. Sherlock is adorned in something similar, but with a white t-shirt and an over-large, burgundy plaid shirt slung stylishly careless and open over the top with the sleeves rolled up halfway up his forearms. The overall look makes him look even bonier and ganglier than he is, but with a delicate and almost feminine air that John finds helplessly endearing.

John reaches down to capture those thin wrists in his hands and pulls them from his body, turning in the circle of Sherlock arms before placing them back on his hips with a smirk. He casts an approving eye down Sherlock lithe figure, the shirt he was wearing now tied loosely around the narrow hips, the weight causing his jeans to hang low and allowing those sharp hip-bones to peek out over the top of the material.    

John licks his lips, glances up pointedly at Sherlock as he does so. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek to hide a small smile, eyes downcast coyly as he sways in time to the music. Sweat beads at the base of Sherlock’s throat and John fights an overwhelming desire to lean over and lick at the salty skin.

John reaches out instead to grasp Sherlock’s waist, hands sliding slowly around to the small of his back. Feeling bold, he tugs Sherlock forward, their hips slotting together deliciously. Sherlock’s teeth make a quick appearance, biting at his bottom lip for a moment as he closes his eyes.

John watches in amazement as Sherlock’s arms slide away from John’s body and raise into the air above his head, tilting his face back and bearing his long throat as if sensing John’s previous longing. His arms twirl elegantly above him, a blissful smile on his upturned face, body meeting every beat with effortless grace. John stares at him, can’t help but slide his hands up under Sherlock’s shirt and across his back to feel the damp skin, too-hot but erupting in goosebumps under John’s fingertips.

 _“God,”_ John breathes, eyes drinking in every fluid movement of the agile body as Sherlock cants his hips forward teasingly into John’s body. Sherlock gradually lowers his arms, resting them on John’s shoulders before pulling him closer so that their chests slide together as they move. John tilts his head upwards, resting his flushed cheek against Sherlock’s.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” John whispers in his ear, tightening his fingers into the soft skin of Sherlock’s back. Can feel the curve of an answering smile against his face.  

“I have an idea,” Sherlock says back lowly, titling his hips inwards again so John can feel the tightness of his groin in all its glory.  

“Either of you lovebirds want a drink?” Jules suddenly shouts as he appears to the left of them, hands full of bottles. The boy seems to be in a much chipper and generous mood than usual, probably because Sherlock has hardly paid Victor any attention all night.  

Neither John nor Sherlock give any sign that they’ve heard the man, so he twirls away with a shrug to pass the drinks around to the others.

Everything around them seems to melt away, the music muffling in John’s ears as they brush their bodies together. John is absently aware of how they must look, knows the others are probably grinning at their writhing bodies and nudging each other with winks. He doesn’t care, just grips Sherlock harder.

John can feel Sherlock trembling under his hands, his previously hot skin cooling with his sweat under John’s touch. He runs his hands down to Sherlock’s belt, allowing his wandering fingers to dance across the swell of his arse with small subtle movements as the taller man pants into his ear.

Sherlock locks his own fingers around the back of John’s neck, leaning his face down into the muscle of his shoulder. He breathes shallow and rapidly into the material of John’s shirt, shivering madly against him as they gyrate shamelessly into each other.

John has a passing thought of how differently things would have turned out if the two of them had decided to have a dance on his stag night, if it would have ended up like this. The two of them, drunk and mindless, rubbing against each other. Probably not, in hindsight. John has absolutely no idea if Sherlock even feels any sort of sexual attraction to John like _this_ one clearly does. Lingering, intense looks notwithstanding, while an obvious case of evidence in possibly every other human being, Sherlock is different. Always the exception to every social rule. He’s intense with everyone.

John can feel his lungs burning with the need to suck in deeper breaths and he jerks suddenly when sharp teeth bite painfully down into his shoulder. Sherlock is crowding into him urgently now, fingers clawing desperately at the skin of John’s neck hard enough to make the man wince.

“Sherlock..” John tries to tug his head away, an impossible feat when those long fingers tighten brutally.

John allows the sharp nails a moment more of indulgence before trying to twist his head away again. Sherlock is mouthing along his jaw now, and as much as that feels _wonderful,_ the younger man’s hitching breath sounds too-rapid in John’s ears.

John frowns, heart thudding for a different reason as he feels Sherlock’s trembling intensify as the man fights to get impossibly closer. John darts a quick hand under Sherlock’s shirt again, turning the backs of his fingers against the now-freezing skin and he stops moving abruptly.

John grabs at Sherlock’s wrists sharply, tugs his hands away and pulls his head back to regard the flushed features and flickering eyelids.

“Open your eyes.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear him, dropping all the weight of his arms into John’s grasp as he continues to move manically in time with the music.

John lets go of his hands, watching with growing dread as Sherlock’s arms flop down to his sides like a ragdoll.

“Look at me,” John demands, capturing Sherlock’s face between his palms to get his attention.

Sherlock’s eyes finally slide open, the mismatched irises vibrating as they flick over John’s face, around the dancefloor, to the ceiling, back to John.

John tightens his grip and clenches his jaw when he spies the overly-dilated pupils.

“What have you taken?” John asks in a deathly low voice.

The muscle of Sherlock’s jaw is fluttering rhymically as he clenches and unclenches his teeth, and he quirks a small smile of someone not-all-there before leaning down to lick a stripe up the side of John’s neck.

John jerks away, holding Sherlock’s head away at arms length.

“For fuck sake, Sherlock, _what did you take?_ ”

Sherlock mumbles something in reply and John is about to ask him to repeat himself when suddenly thin hands slide around Sherlock’s waist from behind. Then he is being tugged out of John’s grip and into the arms of a pretty brunette who John had seen eyeing Sherlock up earlier in the night.

Sherlock goes willingly, twirling the girl around his body while she smiles up at him in delight, hands already grasping at his waist with prying fingers.

John stands there, frozen amid the flurry of movement around him, can feel a horrible mixture of disappointment and anger churning his stomach.

The girl folds into Sherlock lewdly, pressing stained lips against his collarbone as heavily made-up eyes flick over to John with a triumphant look.  

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, allowing the ministrations as his hands tug the girl towards him by the waist of her skin-tight dress.

John takes a small step forward, intending to drag Sherlock away from the girl and out of the club when a thin man, taller than Sherlock with bleached white hair, saunters over and gives the dancing pair a considering look. John tenses, wondering if it’s the girl’s boyfriend, but she casts a sly smile over to the man and then he is pressing up against Sherlock’s back, running his hands down his sides and grinding his crotch into Sherlock’s arse.

Wanting nothing more then to extract Sherlock from the pair, John swallows as Sherlock leans back into the new body, a blissful expression on his face as he reaches a hand behind him to pull the man closer by his hip. John slowly backs away, hands clenching and unclenching repeatedly. A sour taste has taken root in his mouth.

The man leans down to whisper something in Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock reaches backwards to cup the back of the blonde head in reply, tugging it closer to his skin. John turns swiftly, can’t stand to watch any longer, and stumbles towards the entrance of the club.

He bursts through the door, the cool night air a welcome relief on his hot skin and burning lungs. John almost trips over his own feet in his haste to distance himself away from the pounding music before slamming his back against the brick wall. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he takes a few deep breaths, kicks his heel into the brick behind him once, twice, before forcing himself to calm down.

The images of Sherlock grinding up against the two strangers won’t leave John’s mind and he opens his eyes again to stare up into the starry sky.

What the hell just happened?

In the space of one minute, John’s euphoric arousal had turned to concern, suspicion, anger, then hurt. _Hurt._ God, he was actually hurt? Hurt more by Sherlock’s obvious need for drugs (which doesn’t even seem particularly fair in hindsight as _this_ Sherlock had never promised John anything in that front) or by the man’s easy and eager press of foreign bodies against his. Bodies that didn’t belong to _John._

John knows, logically, that Sherlock’s drug-induced mind probably didn’t even notice the change of bodies, probably didn’t even know who he was grinding up against in the beginning anyway. “ _‘Need the loo’_ my arse,” John mutters to himself, pressing the heels of his hands hard into his eyes.

He feels betrayed regardless, is aware that the ache is unwarranted. _This_ Sherlock hasn’t gone through hours and hours of John screaming at him to promise, _promise me Sherlock,_ to never _ever_ touch drugs again. To never put his life at risk for the sake of a idiotic thrill, not when so many people depend on him, not when so many people _love_ him.

Sherlock hadn’t promised John that the brief kisses they had shared meant anything. God, he was _nineteen_ for christ sake. John had kissed nearly everyone in his friendship group at some point or other when he was that age.

But somehow he knows, deep down, that it _had to_ have meant something. Sherlock doesn’t do anything without solid reasoning, without a deep desire. And yes, sometimes those desires are fleeting impulses that dissolve a moment or two later, but they still count. Don’t they?

“A’right John?”

John snaps his eyes open and turns towards the slurring voice, groaning inwardly as Jules stumbles over to as he tries unsuccessfully to light a fag hanging from his lips.

“Your cigarette is the wrong way round,” John mutters, pushing himself upright on the wall.

“Wha-?” Jules trips over nothing and sends a glare down at the floor.

John rolls his eyes, reaches over and snatches the cigarette from his mouth, turning it over and shoving it back between his lips.

“Oh. Ha. Nice one. Cheers,” Jules sniggers, falling sideways onto the wall next to him and finally managing to spark up his lighter.

John lets out a deep sigh, straightening his back on the wall to hear his spine crack.

“Wan’ one?”

John waves away the offered pack with a shake of his head.

“Saw wha’ happen-happened with your boyfriend,” Jules mumbles, giving John an exaggerated grimace of sympathy.

“He isn’t my boyfriend,” John snaps, hears himself mentally echoing that statement in a great many other scenarios and huffs a dry laugh.

“Prob’bly for the best,” Jules pats him on the arm, misinterpreting his humourless snort.

John looks down at the hand, irritated and suddenly feeling very sober. Jules extracts his hand, noticing John’s mood.

“Hey, Sherl’ck isn’t-”

“Did you know he takes drugs?” John interrupts lowly, staring straight ahead and not really in the mood to hear about what Sherlock ‘isn’t’.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I mean, we all do,” Jules laughs, blowing smoke into the air with a stagger.

John gives him a sharp look.

Jules focuses on his face again with difficulty, then elaborates. “A li’l ‘puff puff’,” he mimics taking two quick drags of his cigarette with a loopy smile, “Somet’mes a pill or two when it’s a birthday.” He shrugs.

John frowns. “Not often, then?” He summarises.

Jules shakes his head with deliberate slowness, giving his cigarette a nauseous look. “I don’ think this’s agreeing with me.”

“Has anyone taken anything tonight?” John asks with in a carefully casual tone.

“Nah, haven't done that for aaages. Wouldn’t know where t’get ‘em anyway.”

Experimenting with drugs on an odd occasion is very different from ‘taking drugs’, John thinks.

“Where do you usually get them?” John asks, wondering if Sherlock always picked up for them.

Jules is giving John an unfocused frown. “Why’d you wanna know?”

John sends him an easy smile and shrugs. “Curious is all.”

“Hm,” Jules hums in suspicion. “Sound like a-like a...police.”

John forces a laugh. “Do I?”

“Hey, hey, John,” Jules suddenly stumbles closer, resting his free hand on John’s shoulder. “You should stay ‘way from Sher’ock. Ser’sly. Ser-seriously.”

John scowls, turns to move away. “Yeah, I’ve heard _that_ before.”

“No, no, wait-” Jules grips tighter. “He’s a bad egg, as eggs go,” he huffs a stale laugh over John’s face before growing abruptly serious once more. “‘E’s not right in the head, he’s all fucked up.” Jules twirls his hands around his temples as he says this and John pushes away from the wall in a sharp movement.

He stops a foot away, takes a deep breath, before turning back to Jules with a cold smile, leaning in close.

“I’ve hurt people for saying less, watch yourself lad.”

Jules’ wide eyes squint gradually into confusion, but John is already storming towards the club doors once more.

“Don’t take it personal, mate, he’s jus’ a slut.”

John stops short. Turns back slowly. He tilts his head, regarding the intoxicated boy with barely suppressed rage, can feel his lips twisting upwards in a smile. Takes a step forwards.

“John! Thank god!”

John swings back round towards the door, taking in Victors panicked expression.

“Wha-?”

“Sherlock’s collapsed.”

John is shoving past the boy before he’s even finished his sentence, a low buzzing in his ears as he forces his way through the crowd.

“Over here!” Victor shouts, having followed him back inside, face pale as he waves over to the left.

John pushes writhing bodies out of his way without a care, ignoring the splutters and curses in his wake. It doesn’t take long to find the others, a small ring parting the crowd in the middle of the dance floor, all looking down with worried expressions.

“I don’t know what happened, we were just dancing and then-”

John tunes out the shaking brunette girl who had stolen Sherlock away from him not ten minutes before, brushes past her without a glance as he dives past the frozen bodies.

“Get back, everyone get back!” John shouts, giving Victor a sharp look. The boy immediately reads his expression and begins forcing the ring of people backwards to give John more space.

Sherlock is lying in a heap on the ground, eyelids quivering as he struggles to take short shallow breaths.  

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John asks, rolling him onto his side and pressing two fingers to the pulse point on his neck. It’s elevated, fluttering rapidly but not dangerously so and he taps Sherlock’s disconcertingly cold cheek lightly with the back of his hand.

“Sherlock? Toby, get-”

“I swear, I didn’t do anything!” the brunette girl cries over him, a lilt of hysteria in her voice.

“Shut up!” John snaps at her. “Toby, go and find someone who works here, get an ambulance.”

Toby twists away to go, face stricken, and takes one step before he halts and looks down with wide eyes.

Sherlock has reached out, holding the ankle of Toby’s jeans in weak fingers.

“‘m fine,” John sees Sherlock mouth, mumbling too quiet to be heard over the music.

“Sherlock, try and open your eyes for me. Toby go!” John orders.

“No,” Sherlock protests weakly, tugging at the boy’s trousers to make him stay.

“Sherlock, you need-”

Sherlock shakes his head slowly, slurring words John can’t hear.

“What?” John asks, leaning down a ear close to his mouth.

“Please John, I don’t want to,” Sherlock murmurs, a hint of urgency in his voice.

John stares down at him, conflicted. By all means, he should go to a hospital. But he knows Sherlock, the man has never liked anyone checking him over other than John. His face is scrunched up in a painful grimace and John knows that if his eyes were open they would clearly depict a certain level of desperation.

“Open your eyes and I’ll rule out the hospital,” John says, holding out a hand to halt Toby’s struggle to retrieve his leg.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker open, close again almost immediately, flicker open once more and slide dimmley over to John. He gives a weak smile just as the music cuts out and the house lights turn on, the ignorant partiers groaning around them.

“Hello.”

John smiles softly back. “Hello. You alright?” It’s a stupid question, they both know it.

Sherlock’s eyes roll for a second before settle back onto John’s face. “Yep.”

He’s quite obviously still under the influence of whatever he’s taken, pupils still dilated and speech a little slurred.

“Did he hit his head?” John throws at the brunette girl, the blonde man standing next to her and looking down at Sherlock with wide eyes.

The blonde answers for her, “No. He was kinda drifting off for a few seconds before he fell, sort of stumbled down and I caught him.”

“Good.”

“Did he faint?” An unknown person asks loudly. Muttering breaks out around them, each asking similar questions.

John leans down to Sherlock again, speaking lowly to not be heard by the others.

“What was it you took, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow. “Nothin’,” He moves to sit up.

“Woah, hey. Stay down for a moment.” John catches his shoulders and lowers him gently back to the ground. Sherlock tries to pat his hands away, but gives up after a moment, staring up at the ceiling with slowly blinking eyes.

“Hey, what’s going on? Is he okay?” A loud voice barks, a big burly man pushing his way into the ring.

“I’m fine!” Sherlock shouts back, winces a second later. “I fell asleep,” he grumbles.

“Oi, is he on something?” the man points at John in accusation.

“No, low blood sugar,” John rushes to say, giving Sherlock a quick once over before reaching for his icy hands.

“Want me to call an ambulance?” the man asks, frowning at Sherlock as John begins slowly pulling him upright.

John keeps a keen eye on Sherlock’s face, watching for any signs of nausea or dizziness. Doesn’t reply until Sherlock is fully upright and glancing around himself like he’s only just realised where he is.

“No, that’s fine. Happens all the time. He just need to go home and rest,” John declares, giving the man a nod and pointedly not looking over at Victor and the others who luckily all keep their mouths shut.  

“Home, home home,” Sherlock nods, gripping John’s hand tightly as he begins hauling himself to his feet.

“How’s your vision? Everything clear?” John asks, holding him steady as he gains his balance.

“Vibrating,” Sherlock sounds the word out slowly, enunciating every syllable with delicate care.

“Right,” John frowns, sliding an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and, without a backwards glance, begins walking him towards the exit.

To Sherlock’s credit, he didn’t stumble or mutter anything too odd as they make their way slowly outside, eyes drawn down to his feet in concentration as the crowd parts to let them through. Once outside, however, he turns his head over towards John and says, “Did I fall over?”

John gives him a side-eyed look and props him up against the brick wall that John had been having a crisis on moments before.

“You passed out.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock is still shivering, and John understands what he means when Sherlock had mumbled the word ‘vibrating’, his muscles are severely tensed under John’s hands, so much so that they’re trembling with the force of it.

“Are you cold?” John asks, already tugging at the tied knot of Sherlock’s shirt sleeves still around his waist.

“No.”

Considering his skin feels like ice, John decides listening to anything Sherlock says is a moot point and forces Sherlock’s long limbs into the arms of the shirt. As they’re struggling with the garment, Toby, Victor, Evie and Jules all stumble out of the club and make their way towards them with concerned looks.

“Sherlock, are you alright!?”

“What the hell happened?”

_“Low blood sugar?”_

Sherlock turns his head away from their loud questions with a grimace, muttering something about _‘demons’_ and John gives them a sharp look, holding his hand up to stop them all from piling closer.

“He’s okay, I’m going to take him home.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance?” Toby asks worriedly, glancing around as if a payphone will magically materialise nearby.

Sherlock gives John a sharp look, teeth chattering slightly and his lips downturned.

“No it’s fine, Toby. Thank you. He’ll be alright, I think the worst is over.”

“What happened?” Evie asks, looking like she physically restraining herself from rushing over and giving Sherlock a hug.

John casts a look at Sherlock, who has adopted a rather content expression now the talk of hospitals has dispersed. He’s watching his hands as he runs his fingertips across the pads of his thumbs rhythmically, as if the sensation is new and riveting.

“I feel really nice,” Sherlock murmurs to himself.

“I’m not sure,” John answers Evie truthfully.

“Shall we try and call a taxi or something?” Victor asks, watching Sherlock with a pained expression.

Sherlock glances up at that, gives Victor a smile. “Victor.”

Victor gives him an uncertain smile back, “Alright, Sherlock?”

“I’d much rather walk, if that’s alright with you.” Sherlock aims this at John.

John nods at him, thinking the fresh air might do him some good, then nods at the others, who slowly start collecting their things.

When they all turn away so mutter amongst themselves, John turns back to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, I need to know what you took earlier. Or what you _thought_ you took at any rate. This is important.”

Sherlock blinks at him, jaw grinding silently.

Just then, another body staggers out of the club, where the pounding music has started up again.

“Alright there, Sherlock? Heard you had a little tumble.”

John spins around, fury overtaking his senses at the sight of Alex’s smirking face.

“Be careful yeah? Lots of dodgy people in clubs these days. Make sure you’re keeping a keen eye on your drinks, kids.” The man winks at them, smiling nastily before disappearing back inside.

John stares after him, wanting nothing more than to chase him down and grab his throat and-

 _“Oh,”_ Sherlock says in a voice of epiphany. “John, I think I was drugged.”

John looks back at him, takes a deep breath and reaches out a steady hand to cup Sherlock’s chin, pulling his mouth open to stop the gurning.

“Anyone got any chewing gum?”

* * *

 

The first thing Sherlock does when they get home is try to down a pint glass full of water. John lets him gulp down half of it before snatching it out of his hands.

“Oi-”

“Wait, go for a piss.”

Sherlock gives him an odd look.

“I need to see if you can,” John elaborates.

Sherlock keeps staring at him. John rolls his eyes, pushing him towards the kitchen door. “Just do it, please.”

Sherlock grabs John’s hand instead and begins dragging him up the stairs.

“Sherlock-”

“No, I will, just..” he doesn’t finish his sentence, just pulls John into his room and locking the door.

“Oh, it’s nice to be home-OH!” He sprints around his room, switching on his fairy lights with a burst of manic energy.

“Shhh, everyone is asleep!” John hisses, trying to grab at him but Sherlock dances out of his grasp with a laugh.

“Sherlock, for god’s sake-”

Suddenly Sherlock stops, takes three quick steps towards John and wraps his arms around his shoulders in a fierce embrace.  

“Sorry, sorry-” he murmurs repeatedly into John’s neck before pulling back just a abruptly.

Sherlock paces into the middle of his room, shaking out his limbs and chewing frenziedly at the minty gum Evie had found in the bottom of her bag.

“I feel strange, feverish, hot and cold at the same time. And my muscles keep locking, are permanently tense. I understand now why you want to check if I can urinate John, very clever, a usual symptom of MDMA is struggling to release the bladder. My constant thirst could be a symptom of speed, but then again that could be down to excessive movement. My sense of touch is heightened, my thoughts are racing a mile a minute, too fast for my mouth to keep up with. I feel euphoric- Oh, I wish you were expericaning this with me, John- I want to touch you but I won’t, might make you feel uncomfortable, you _are_ giving me a strange look. I’m going to assume whatever Alex slipped me was a cocktail of many different substances, not certain why I lost consciousness though, possible over-exuberance and dehydration?” Sherlock blurts all this in a mad rush of stumbling words, pacing a circle into his carpet with his eyes darting rapidly around his room. He brings up his hands for a moment, palms together as if in prayer and rubs his fingers against his mouth in a painfully familiar gesture. After a second of concentrated rubbing, he unclasps his palms and stops dead near his bed and simply stands there caressing his lips with feather-light strokes.

John watches him for a moment before sighing and kicking off his boots, placing them neatly together up against the wall next to the door.

“Alex is a drug dealer isn't he,” John says tiredly, straightening up and crossing his arms across his chest.

“Hm? Oh. Yes,” Sherlock drops his hands from his mouth and heads over to his adjoining bathroom. He leaves the door open, and John can hear the tell-tell sound of a belt being undone and a zipper being lowered.

“And that thing you took from him, it was drugs wasn’t it.” It isn’t a question.

“You’re right John, I can’t urinate!” Sherlock shouts too-loud from the bathroom.

John gives him a moment, rubbing his hands roughly over his face, then walks over to the open door. He leans against the doorframe, watching Sherlock wash his hands.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock dries his hands on the towel, glances up at John through the reflection of the mirror.

“Hm?”

“You stole drugs from Alex.”

Sherlock looks at his own reflection, widening his eyes comically to peer at his dilated pupils in fascination.

“They match now, at least. Look.” He spins fluidly and pads over to John, eyes still wide as if John wouldn’t be able to tell the difference without them being so.

John catches his arms and holds him at arm's length. Raises his eyebrows expectedly. He knows Sherlock is coherent enough now to understand what’s being said to him. True to that deduction, Sherlock rolls his eyes in exasperation and bends forward, flopping his forehead down onto John’s chest.

“Yes, yes, yes to everything.”

John lets go of Sherlock’s arms, slides his hands into the curly hair. “Why?”

Sherlock pauses for a moment, arms dangling down in the air between them.

“Saw the opportunity.”

“What did you take?”

Sherlock shrugs.

John takes a deep breath. “And I’m going to assume you can’t give them back because you’ve used them?”

Sherlock jerks himself upright, scowling. “No. I can’t give them back because I don’t know where they are.”

John gives him a doubtful look, but he’s tired and irritable and has a headache and selfishly doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.

“Okay,” John says, shrugs away from Sherlock and back into his room.

Sherlock follows slowly, stopping to regard John with a creased brow as the older boy walks over to the door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asks, sounding a little panicked.

John unlocks the door and throws a small smile over his shoulder. “To change into my pajamas. You should do the same, they’ll feel good against your skin.”

Sherlock licks his bottom lip, then sends John a bright smile which turns abruptly down into a frown.

“You’re not angry with me, are you?”

“Why would I be angry with you?”

Sherlock lifts a shoulder awkwardly like a child, then catches himself doing to with a frown.

“Interesting,” he looks back up at John. “It’s very very important to me that you’re not angry with me John, I think it would break my heart right now if you were.”

John raises an eyebrow, hand still on the door handle. “Bit dramatic.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes a bit manically and gives John a scathing look. “I’m under the influence, what do you expect? Just tell me you’re not angry with me. Even if you are. But make it convincing because I’ll be able to tell.”   

John huffs out an breath that is half exasperation and half a laugh. “I’m not angry with you, Sherlock.”

“Good, because you have no reason to be. Considering I haven't actually done anything wrong.” Sherlock glares at him and stomps over to his dresser.

The rapid mood swings are exhausting, so John just shakes his head and slips out of the door.

Once in his room, he changes slowly into his pajamas, thinking he would really like to take a shower but decides to hold off until the morning. He would rather keep Sherlock supervised for as long as possible.

John, from experience as a student _and_ a doctor, would assume that what Alex slipped Sherlock was indeed a cocktail of MDMA, speed, and possibly coke. The latter would have explained his sudden manic energy on the dancefloor, the need to rub close to any body he came in contact with, but has probably dispersed now. MDMA, however, can last for _hours_ so John prepares himself for a long night.

Depending on the potency, Sherlock should be fine. Seems a lot better now than when he was at the club. John, too, isn’t completely sure why Sherlock collapsed, but all drugs (especially a cocktail) can cause a number of odd reactions in the body.

From John’s rather limited knowledge of party drugs, he is aware that MDMA usually releases an influx of endorphins, causing the user to have a heightened sense of empathy and emotion. This is usually paired with a sense of contentment, warmness and general happiness. Something John can see the appeal of, of course, but he’s seen enough teenagers being brought into A&E experiencing seizures and heart rate irregularities to know the risk just isn’t worth it.  

Dressed in his soft and borrowed pajamas, John pads quietly back down the hall, taps on the wood once to let Sherlock know he’s entering before opening the door. Sherlock has changed into a faded, too-big and baggy tshirt with ‘The Jam’ logo on the front. It reaches halfway down his bare thighs and the arms just past his elbows. John stares at him as he softly closes the door behind him, wondering where on earth he got it from.

“‘The Jam’?” John asks with a smile, locking the door after a moment’s hesitation and wandering over to Sherlock’s bed while the other boy stands in the centre of his room and slowly lowers himself into a crouch before standing upright again. John sits on his bed, watching the muscles of Sherlock’s legs ripple and flex with the movement as he does it again.

“ _A town called malice, yeeaaahh,_ ” Sherlock sings briefly in a deep voice, stretching his arms above his head as he lifts himself up on his tiptoes.

John grins at him, blinks when Sherlock bends his right knee up towards his groin and points it to the side in a right angle, grabs the heel of his foot and then straightens his leg upright high above his head.

“Jesus, how are you doing that?” John asks in awe, it’s a pose he’s often seen dancers or gymnasts do, and although he knows Sherlock is fairly flexible; this is just ridiculous.

“I took ballet for eleven years,” Sherlock murmurs, eyes closed and keeping impeccable balance. He slowly lowers his leg, toes pointed, then does the same pose with his left.   

John is both baffled and unsurprised by this statement. Makes sense, with Sherlock lithe frame and ropey muscles.

“Ballet, really?”

“I love to dance, John.”

“Yeah, I reached that conclusion earlier,” John grumbles a little bitterly.

Sherlock’s eyes open a sliver to give John a side-along look from behind his raised shin.

“Why’d you stop?” John asks quickly as Sherlock’s mouth opens to no doubt comment on his tone.

“I grew bored of it. You need a certain degree of discipline that, unfortunately, I do not possess,” Sherlock sighs, his torso following is lowering his leg and resting his palms flat on the ground between his feet.

“That I can definitely imagine.”

Sherlock hums in agreement, slowly raising his parted feet off the ground and up into a handstand.

“Christ, be careful,” John mutters, suitably impressed. Sherlock’s trembling has definitely decreased, the stretches and casual exercise loosening his cramped muscles.  

Sherlock holds the stand for a few seconds before his elbows suddenly give and he crumbles hard onto the floor with a grunt.

“Shit!” John darts forward. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock rolls over onto his back, giggling breathlessly and John rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips as he runs a hand over Sherlock’s skull for a quick assessment.

Sherlock catches his wrist, holds John’s hand in his hair and blinks up at him with a soft smile.

“What a strange night,” Sherlock comments lightly.

John nods in agreement, stroke the inky curls and Sherlock shivers.

“Oh, that feels nice.”

John smiles a bit, tugs at the strands playfully.

Sherlock sucks in a little breath, then sits up suddenly, staring at John with an intense look.

“Remember when you stopped me punching Jules?”

John nods.

“You held my face and told me to breathe and that _worked,_ John. It worked, how did you do that?” Sherlock’s eyes are wide, pupils still blown and jaw muscles twitching again.

“It works for someone else I know,” John gives the similar reply he gave to Victor, who voiced the same question those few days ago.

Sherlock frowns a little at that, affronted at being compared to anyone else. John quirks a teasing eyebrow at him.

“Do it again.”

John raises his other eyebrow, but then reaches out and cups Sherlock’s cheeks with his hands. The younger man’s eyes immediately close and he lets out a sigh of content across John’s face.

“I nearly punched Jules tonight,” John says conversationally as Sherlock enjoys the warmth of his palms.

“You did? Why?” Sherlock asks, eyes still closed but a small pleased smile titling his lips.

John hesitates, not wanting to hurt Sherlock’s feeling while he’s in this vulnerable state. Sherlock, however, picks up on this instantly and says, “He was bad-mouthing me, I take it?”

“Something like that,” John says, not elaborating.

Sherlock opens his eyes and regards John knowingly. “You’re curiously protective. What did he say?”

John looks up at the ceiling for a second. “That I should keep my distance, something about you being a ‘bad egg’.”

Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes. “And are you going to heed his advice?”

John gives Sherlock an insulted look. “God no.”

Sherlock grins. “Good.” Then leans forward to press his lips against John’s neck.

John jerks slightly in surprise, tilting his head to the side automatically. Sherlock hums into his skin, licking delicately down to the base of his throat.

“Sherlock, I dont-”

“Shh,” Sherlock murmurs, pushing John backwards by his shoulders until John is laying flat on the floor. He kisses John’s collar bones, scraping his teeth against them teasingly.  

John sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, closing his eyes as his mind goes blissfully blank. Doesn’t fully register Sherlock’s kisses lowering onto his chest, his stomach, his hip, until slender fingers begin fluttering over the waistband of his pajama bottoms.

John snaps his eyes open, scrambles his hands back onto Sherlock’s face from where they had dropped to the floor moments before.

“No, no, Sherlock-” John tries to push his prying fingers away.

Sherlock slaps at his hands, reaching down to cup John’s growing bulge over the thin material, leaning his head down to nuzzle at his inner thigh.

John’s eyes flutter momentarily before he tries to tug Sherlock’s face gently away again.

“You’re drugged up, stop-”

“I’m good at this, trust me, _I’m good, I’m good, I’m good_ ,” Sherlock repeats quietly over and over, huffing hot breath into John’s groin.

For some reason, the words unsettle John more than the situation itself and he sits up abruptly, tugging Sherlock’s face away from him and pulling him upright.

Sherlock blinks at him with a blank expression, large eyes unfocused like he doesn’t know where he is.

“Hey,” John prompts, tightening his fingers on Sherlock’s cheeks. When Sherlock doesn’t respond, just keeps looking at him like he doesn’t know who he is, John shakes Sherlock’s head a little, an empty feeling in his stomach.

Sherlock blinks once more, then suddenly his eyes clear and he grins brightly at John.

“Admittedly, I would _love_ to see you punch Jules in the face.”

John stares at him, unnerved. It’s like the past few moments never happened, Sherlock easily continuing their previous conversation.

“How are you feeling?” John asks, trying to adopt a casual tone while his heart thumps unpleasantly.

Sherlock considers the question, reaching up to cover his hands over John’s still resting on his cheeks.

“A bit like I’m wrapped up in cotton wool. Maybe I should pay Alex a little visit in the future-”

“You will not!” John snaps, anger flooding him unexpectedly.

Sherlock starts a little at the tone, frowns at John. “I was joking.”

“Good. You should stay away from him,” John drops his hands and stands up with jerky movements.

“I have every intention to,” Sherlock growls, scowling up at him.

“I’m going to take that as a promise,” John says lowly, pointing a finger at him before turning towards the bed. “Think you could sleep?”

“No.” Sherlock spits the word out petulantly, clambering to his feet and storming towards the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” John barks.

“To see if I can piss!” Sherlock shouts, slamming the door shut behind him.

John flinches at the sound, groans deeply and rubs at his eyes.

“Bloody hell,” he says under his breath.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't do drugs, kids.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter killed me, I'm still not 100% satisfied with it but I had to upload it before I just went and deleted the whole damn thing.
> 
> I hope YOU like it!!

John waits on Sherlock’s bed for ten minutes, hearing nothing but silence in the bathroom, until he gets a little anxious and walks over to the door. 

“Sherlock?” John calls, tapping on the wood with one knuckle.

There is no reply. John huffs out a breath of frustration and knocks again, a little harder.

“Sherlock. You can’t sulk in there all night. Open the door.”

Nothing. 

“You haven't fallen down the toilet have you?” John tries to joke, laughing a little nervously.  

When he is only met with more silence, John tries the handle onto to find it locked. He bangs on the door again. The subtle smell of burning drifts up into John’s nostrils from the gap under the door and he jolts a little, banging on the door with renewed vigor.  

“Sherlock! For god’s sake, open th-”

Suddenly the door jerks open a tad and Sherlock’s wide-eyed face appears in the crack. John immediately notices all the lights are switched off and brightly burning candles are dotted around the room on every available surface, casting an flickering orange glow across the white tiles.

“What are you doing?” John asks, a bit concerned. 

Sherlock gives him a wide grin full of teeth. 

“You have to try this.” He grabs John’s arm and pulls him inside, shutting the door again with a click and immersing the room in a dim cocoon of light. 

John can just about make out Sherlock’s almost crazed expression, hair dishevelled like he’s been repeatedly running his hands through the curls. 

“Did you pee?” John asks, allowing himself to be manhandled across the small room and over to the bathtub. He gives Sherlock a dubious look when the younger man tries to get John to step inside.

“Yes. I mean no, I didn’t. I mean I tried, but I couldn't.” Sherlock climbs into the bath, pulling at John’s hand when he just stands there. “It is empty, John!”

John hesitates for a moment, no idea where this is going, but clambers inside. Sherlock wiggles his shoulders in delight, making John suppress a smile, and lowers himself down to sit on the cold ceramic floor of the tub. John follows suit, giving Sherlock a questioning look that the man ignores. Sherlock arranges them so that they’re sat on opposite ends of the bath, legs stretched out; Sherlock’s left positioned under John’s right and John’s left leg under Sherlock’s right. 

Sherlock sinks down a little, resting his head back on the edge of the bath and closes his eyes.

John casts as eye around the glowing room, waiting for something but not knowing what that something is. 

After a long moment, John sighs and shakes his head. “What’s this, then?”

Sherlock snaps his head up to glare at him. “You’re spoiling it!”

“Spoiling what exactly?”

Sherlock sits up, leaning close and tilting his head to the side. “Do you hear that?”

John squints, straining his ears. “Hear what?”

“That.  _ That!” _

John gives Sherlock a disturbed look. “No, what are  _ you  _ hearing?” 

“Silence.”

John pauses, listening to the air. Sherlock is right, he can hear both their low breathing, but that’s all. It’s mysteriously quiet, no groans of pipes or dripping water that one would usually find in a bathroom. No creaks coming from house itself. Not even the sound of small flickering flames. Nothing at all. 

“That’s strange,” John whispers, subconsciously lowering his voice so as to not disturb the serenity of the room now that it’s been pointed out. 

Sherlock nods at him gravely, eye’s still too-wide. “It’s the most insulated room in the house, I’ve tried to find the original blueprints to understand how or why but to no avail. Sometimes everything in my head is too loud and it hurts, you see. It makes my skin prickle and itch and I can’t stop moving or scratching, so I come in here and close the door and sit in the bath and it makes everything  _ stop _ ,” Sherlock whispers conspiringly. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as he stares at John with large imploring eyes, looking suddenly incredibly young. The soft light of the candles cast shadows over his thin face, reflect gold in his dark pupils. 

John knows Sherlock is prone to episodes of manic behaviour, also knows it’s usually due to a discomfort not dissimilar to anxiety. John usually finds the episodes frustrating, Sherlock zooming around the flat, raving nonsense and kicking things across the room. John has a moment of guilty realisation that he’s never once thought about how frustrating it must be for  _ Sherlock.  _ Never took the time to ask what the sensation was to cause so much irritability and violent desperation for something,  _ anything _ , to distract him from his churning thoughts. Seeing everything in such sparkling clarity, unable to stop deducing at any given moment; it must be exhausting.  

To be perfectly honest, John always assumed a lot of it was due to cravings. Once an addict, always an addict and all that. But it can’t be, the proof is staring at him in the face with large round eyes. 

_ His  _ Sherlock, the one from home, maybe never discovered the calming effects of this room. Not when it had burned down when he was only six years old. Maybe he never realised what he needed was complete silence in an suffocatingly enclosed space, and not an myriad of cases to push and push his body into such a state of exhaustion that he passes out from the strain. 

“I can hear my heartbeat, John,” Sherlock murmurs with a tiny smile, as if it’s the most incredible thing to ever happen. 

“Me too.”

“You can hear  _ my  _ heartbeat?” Sherlock asks in amazement. 

John quirks a smile. “No, I can hear mine.” 

It’s true, he can hear it beating in his ears and throat, feel it pumping blood from his chest. It’s a odd sensation. 

Sherlock leans closer to him, dipping his head to rest an ear against John’s chest. John looks down at him in surprise, gripping onto the sides of the bath to stop himself reaching out, reluctant to touch Sherlock after the odd moment earlier in his room.  

“Yes,” Sherlock whispers. “I can hear it, too.” 

* * *

 

John doesn’t know how long they lay together in the bath for, but he must have drifted off because he finds himself blinking his eyes open, neck stiff and shoulders cramped.

“Ugh,” John groans, pulling himself upright. It takes him a seconds longer to realise that number one; it’s morning, and number two; Sherlock has gone. 

John darts a look around the bathroom, noticing the candles are no longer flickering but haven't burnt down to the wick so John assumes Sherlock must have blown them out sometime during the night.  

John hauls himself out of the tub, wincing and massaging his stiff muscles and padding over to the door.

“Sherlock?” he calls quietly as he pulls it open, expecting to find Sherlock curled up in his bed and ready to give him a bollocking about not being woken up. 

Sherlock isn’t in his bed, however. In fact, he isn’t in the room at all.

Frowning, John stretches his arms over his head, causing his joints to pop satisfyingly. He wanders across the room, noticing the large tshirt Sherlock was wearing last night thrown carelessly in a heap on his bed. Next to it lays a silver flick lighter and John absently picks it up. He turns it over in his hands before recognising it to be the one he found the first night he was here, the inscription on the front causing a different reaction in John’s stomach than when he had first read it.

_ Yours, A. x _

John twirls it around and around in his fingers, staring down at nothing, unable to shake off an odd feeling of anxiety in his gut. Sherlock had said it wasn’t his. John glances down to the floor near the bathroom where Sherlock had fallen during his handstand, his desperate voice claiming  _ ‘I’m good, I’m good, I’m good,’  _ filtering through John’s mind. 

John abruptly throws the lighter back on the bed and quickly leaves the room.

Sherlock isn’t in John’s room either, so John pads back out into the hall and stands there with his hands on his hips. It’s doubtful Sherlock would have been able to drop off last night due to the cocktail in his system and it’s very probable that he got bored and restless again, and with John not awake to keep him entertained, he had wandered off to find something to occupy himself.

John makes his way to the staircase, trotting quietly down to the ground floor. He can hear voices in the kitchen and makes his way over to the door which sits ajar, peeking through the small gap.

“-never hear from him anyway,” an old woman John doesn’t recognise is saying as she pours tea into Mr Holmes’ cup with a severe frown. “You’d think even a phone call every now and then, but oh no!”

“Alice, he’s busy working,” Mrs Holmes placates gently, sipping from her own cup. “I’m sure he will call when he has a free moment.”

This must be Ms Bennet, the housekeeper Sherlock was telling John about that first day. Almost a week ago now, although it feels so much longer.

“After all I’ve done for him, honestly it’s unacceptable…” she complains on, voice drifting quieter into incoherency as she walks over to the sink. The Holmes parents give each other exasperated smiles over their tea and John silently backs away, leaving them to it.

He pokes his head into a few rooms as he passes them, all empty and quiet. John sighs, ready to give up and head back into the kitchen for some breakfast when he hears a soft whisper to his left. John walks over to the door, pushing it open and glancing inside.

It’s another drawing room, calming deep blue walls and dark oak furniture littered around the space. Eurus sits on large couch, head turned downwards. John takes a hesitant step inwards and finally spots Sherlock.

He’s laying curled up on his side, head pillowed in Eurus’ lap. Her hand is stroking through his curls gently and John takes another silent step forward to peer at his face. Sherlock is staring straight ahead, unblinking and face utterly void of any emotion. The only movement he makes is the slight rise and fall of his chest.

As John opens his mouth to speak, Eurus slowly turns her head in his direction and flicks her eyes up to meet his face. She smiles. 

John shifts his weight onto his other foot, deliberately causing a creak in the floorboards. Still, Sherlock shows no sign of hearing him, doesn’t move a muscle. 

After a long moment, Eurus turns back to her brother, hand never pausing as she weaves her fingers in his hair. 

John takes a breath to speak again, but stops when Eurus shoots him a sharp look. She shakes her head minutely. 

Thinking Sherlock must be in the process of a bad comedown, John bites the inside of his cheek before backing away out of the room reluctantly. He pulls the door almost completely closed, not entirely sure why he does, then turns and almost crashes straight into a solid chest.

“Oh! Mind yourself,” come a hearty chuckle and John takes a quick step backwards, looking up into the smiling face of Mr Trevor.

“Alfie,” John greets in surprise, jaw clenching as lead settles in his empty stomach.

“Having a nose around?” the man asks good-naturedly, nodding at the half-closed door behind them.

John shrugs and adopts a sheepish air. “You caught me.” He smiles, eyes darting towards the floor as if embarrassed. 

Alfie gives a booming laugh, clapping John on the shoulder with a large hand. It takes John a tremendous amount of willpower to not grab the wrist and twist the man away from him.

“Did Sherlock not give you a tour? I’d be happy to show-” 

John quickly darts in front of the door when Alfie moves to push it open.

“No need, I was actually looking for Sherlock,” John says with a polite smile and a silent plea that Eurus, who can most definitely hear everything being said outside the room, doesn’t come sauntering out with that knowing smirk of hers. “Thank you for the offer though.”

“Funny, I was just looking for Sherlock too,” Alfie nods, glancing around to the staircase as if Sherlock will trot down at any moment. “Well, both of you actually. Emelia wants you all down for breakfast.” He smiles, sickly sweet. 

“Ah, right. Well. Hopefully the smell of food will tempt Sherlock out of wherever he’s hiding,” John forces a light chuckle, leading the tall man away from the door and across the hall.

“I doubt it, but we can live in hope!” Alfie laughs and John laughs and it’s almost painfully obvious how forced they both sound. 

“Excuse my bluntness, John, but I had rather thought you would be back in London by now,” Alfie queries friendly enough, eyebrows cocked curiously and eyes intense. John turns towards him slowly.

“Sherlock offered me to stay over the summer before I have to head back to uni,” John explains with a hard smile. “It’s such a lovely area, and the Holmes’ are so kind, I couldn’t help but accept.”

Alfie stops just outside the kitchen door, turning to look at John fully, that wide smile still stretched across his face. His dark eyes flick around John’s face for a second as if trying to spot something in his expression. 

“How wonderful,” he murmurs lowly after a moment.

John can feel his own smile turning to one of threat and defence, a smile he reserves for criminals. He nods.

Both men size each other up for a second longer, before Alfie gives another hearty laugh and slaps his palm down hard on John’s shoulder blade. 

“You are an interesting character, John. I’m looking forwards to having you around.” The man pushes John inside the kitchen, still chuckling like they’re old chums. 

“There you are, John!” Mrs Trevor smiles over at him. “Where’s the other two?” 

“Both gone awol, I’m afraid,” Alfie answers for John, to his irritation. 

Both men take a seat at the table, opposite one another. 

Ms Bennet shuffles over, pouring tea into John and Alfie’s cups and introducing herself. John smiles his thanks, watching with mild concern as she shakily lowers the teapot onto the table. She looks too old to be working at all, but John remembers Sherlock explaining how much this job means to her. How, if she has it her way, she’ll be working for the Holmes’ until she drops down dead . 

“How was your night out, John? Have a bit to drink?” Mr Holmes winks over his newspaper.

“Erm. Yeah, it was good cheers. Thanks again for...” John trails off, jerking his head vaguely towards the door. Mr Holmes just smiles and winks again, going back to his paper. 

“Ah, to be young and carefree again,” Alfie sighs dramatically. “What I wouldn’t give to go back in time and do it all again.”

John nearly spits out his tea, choking a little until Mrs Holmes slaps him on the back. 

“You feeling rough this morning, John?” Alfie chuckles. “Sherlock certainly looked it last night.”

John jerks, coughing to clear his irritated throat and snapping his head upright. “You saw Sherlock last night?” 

Alfie nods, stirring sugar into his tea. “Yes. Well, very early this morning to be more precise. Bumped into him in the kitchen when I got up for a glass of water. He did seem a little out of it, poor lad.”

John frowns, the tea in his stomach churning unpleasantly. “You stayed over last night?” He demands, voice rough.

Everyone turns to John with curious expressions. 

“Yes,” Alfie says slowly, casting a patronising smile at the Holmes elders. “Is that okay with you, John?”

_ No. No, it is not okay you smug bastard- _

John shakes himself and offered a strained smile. “Of course! I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, I was just surprised. If you’ll excuse me.” John stands abruptly from the table, almost tripping over his chair in his haste.

“John, you haven't eaten a thing!” Mrs Holmes calls after him in confusion.

“I’ll grab something later, thank you though!” John rushes to stay, ducking through the door.

“Just as bad as Sherlock, that one,” John hears Ms Bennet muttering as he sprints across the hall towards the drawing room where he found Sherlock and Eurus, his mind’s eye full of Sherlock’s awfully blank face, staring fixedly at the wall. Pale and unmoving, like a marble statue. John feels sick.

He dives through the door and stops dead. The room is empty.

Letting out a groan of frustration, John flies back out of the room and upstairs to Sherlock’s bedroom. 

Empty.

John hardly spares the room a full glance before running back down the hall towards his own room. He bursts through the door and stumbles to a stop, breathing hard.

Sherlock glances up curiously from his bed, book in hand.

“You alright John?” 

“You-you. Me, I’m fi-are you okay?” John stutters, panting. 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Yes, clearly.” He waves a pale hand down his body as if to demonstrate  _ ‘See? All in one piece.’ _

“Where’s Eurus?” 

Sherlock shrugs, eyes turning back to his book. “In her room, I expect.” 

“Oh.” John stands there, feeling a little stupid. 

He doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting, doesn’t even know what conclusions he has come to, but Sherlock laying casually on his stomach reading a book isn’t what John had in mind.

“How are you feeling? I woke up in the bath this morning, you know.” John closes the door firmly and then after a moment, locks it. Feels a bit better doing so, isn’t sure why. 

Sherlock rolls onto his back, allowing John to sit in the space where he was previously laying. 

“Fine,” Sherlock says. 

“You didn’t seem ‘fine’ earlier,” John points out.

Sherlock slides his eyes over to him. “When? Last night?”

“No, this morning. In the blue drawing room.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows crease a little while he thinks for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

John stares down at him in disbelief. “You’re kidding. This morning? With Eurus? You looked completely out of it-”

“Oh. Yes. I must have been in my mind palace,” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand.

John shakes his head, doesn’t believe that for one second. 

Sherlock misinterprets his look for confusion. “It’s a memory technique-” he begins to explain.

“No, I know what it is!” John snaps without thinking, feeling a little like he’s being pulled apart at the seams. He knows for a fact Sherlock wasn’t in his mind palace because for one; he absolutely will not allow any physical contact with  _ anyone _ while he’s doing it and two; John intimately knows what he looks like when he’s in his head and curled up on his side, eyes wide open and hands cushioning his cheek is  _ not  _ it. 

“You know what it is?” Sherlock asks, sitting up slowly. 

“Er, yes,” John begins distractedly. “I have a friend from home who-”

“Oh, yes. Your  _ friend, _ ” Sherlock interrupts. John snaps his eyes to Sherlock’s face, surprised by the venom in his tone. Sherlock is glaring at him with narrowed eyes. “Is this the same  _ friend  _ who you also can calm down with your touch alone? The same  _ friend  _ who makes you feel like you _ ‘know me’ _ ?”

John sucks in small breath, thrown. “Well, yes-”

“The same  _ friend  _ who you are so obviously enamoured with that you can’t stop yourself from comparing me to them at every opportunity?” 

John freezes, heart stopping. Sherlock’s sudden anger is perplexing him, that last question in particular making John uncomfortable for reasons he doesn’t really want to consider. 

John forces out a huff of laughter, trying to lighten the swift change of mood. “What are you talking about?”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Sherlock spits out. Then he is pushing himself off the bed in one quick movement, glaring down at John with a sudden viciousness that John hasn’t yet seen on his young face.

Sherlock stands over him, breathing hard. “Who the hell are you John? Why is it you care so much about me, about what I’m doing or who I’m doing it with?”

John frowns, struggling to keep up with the rapid questions. “I never-”

“Are you working for Mycroft? Is that it? He’s paying you to spy on me-” Sherlock scoffs, throwing his head to the side with a look of disgusted.

John surges to his feet, confused and irritated. “Don’t be ridiculous! Calm down-”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Sherlock bellows, eyes wide and deranged.

John stops. Takes a deep breath and holds out his hands as if Sherlock’s a wild animal. “Look, Sherlock, you’re obviously having a comedown, it’s normal-”

Sherlock spins away furiously, turns back to John a few paces away with a repulsed look, eyes hooded. “Don’t patronise me, John. I’m not a child, I know perfectly well what a comedown feels like.”

John pauses, thoughts spiralling rapidly in his mind. He sets his jaw. “Where are the drugs you took from Alex?”

Sherlock lets out an awful laugh of disbelief. “You really aren't selling your case well, are you?”

“Sherlock.”

“Why do you care? Hm?” Sherlock walks towards him, crowding into John’s personal space. “If you were simply my  _ friend,  _ why would you care where they were?”

John holds his ground, shakes his head at the livid figure in front of him. “Can you hear yourself? As your  _ friend  _ I am concerned about your continued survival so  _ yes _ , I do care about where they are!”

Sherlock glowers down at him for a long moment, jaw clenched hard. Then, a sudden smile tilts his lips up. It isn’t a nice smile, and John waits for what’s coming with dread. 

Sherlock leans forward, eyes flashing and teeth bared in that twisted grin. “I used them,” he says, his voice is low and steady. “Is that what you want to hear? It’s all gone because I shot it all into my bloodstream and it was  _ heavenly! _ ” Sherlock holds his arms out wide in mock triumph, as if waiting for an applause. 

John scans his face for a minute, smiles tightly and shakes his head again. “I don’t believe you.”

Sherlock drops his arms, backing away from John with a horrible laugh. “I don’t care.”

“You told me yesterday you lost it all,” John reminds him in a low voice. 

Sherlock barks that awful laugh again. “I lied! Don’t you get that yet, John? I’m a liar, I lie all the time! About  _ everything! _ ”

An unexpected fury envelops John’s entire body at those words, taking him by surprise but not enough to ignore it. He takes a furious step forward. “I know that! You have  _ no idea _ how much I know that!”

Sherlock takes a matching step towards him. “Then why are you still here!?”

“Because I’m an idiot!” John shouts, fire coursing through his veins, so livid he can barely see. “Because I obviously don’t have enough self-respect to stay the hell away from you! Because no matter how much you continuously fuck up my life, I can’t seem to ever walk away!”  A small voice is telling John to shut up, that he isn’t talking to  _ this  _ Sherlock anymore, but a louder voice, one screaming in anger and pain, easily drowns it out. “You push and push and  _ push me away,  _ you lie and you fucking  _ kill me _ and still I keep crawling back for more!” John lowers his voice, smiling at Sherlock’s wide-eyed expression with cruel satisfaction. “But so do you, Sherlock Holmes. You’re just as pathetic as I am.”

There’s a beat of silence. John can hear himself breathing harshly in space between them. A flurry of expressions pass across Sherlock’s face; confusion, pain, fury, resignation, so many that John can’t identify. He settles on ice, eyes cold and face a blank slate. 

“Get out.”

“This is my room.” 

Sherlock’s lip curls in a sneer. “No it’s not. You don’t live here.” 

John blinks. “Right. You’re right.” He turns on his heel and storms out of the room. John isn’t thinking clearly, rage pulsing through his body, he  _ knows  _ this. He can’t stop. He races down the stairs and stomps to the front door, hand outstretched.

“Where are you going?”

John closes his eyes, hand resting on the wood. 

“Not now, Eurus.” 

“Someone’s touchy-”

John turns, anger overriding common sense as he glares at the young girl. 

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m leaving. Fifty percent of the competition has gone, now all you have to do is get rid of Victor like you so very clearly want to, and then He is all yours.” John jerks his head towards the stairs.

Eurus tilts her head to one side, regards John thoughtfully with slightly raised eyebrows.  “Is that so?”

“I’m done with your games, I’m done with everything here. I’m going home.” John turns towards the door again jerkily.

“Home?  _ Home? _ Oh, your going  _ home! _ ” Eurus cackles, as if the idea is absurd. “You’re not going anywhere, John.”

John slowly turns back towards her, hackles raised. “Is that a threat?” He asks quietly, voice low with barely suppressed rage.

Eurus gives him a pitying look. “No, it’s a fact.”

“I’m not doing this-”

Eurus’s face is suddenly inches away, her small hand closed tightly around John’s throat, pinning him to the door. Her eyes are burning with fire, the playful look vanished into a cold, terrifying madness.  

“If you leave now, I will kill him,” she breathes the promise over his face, low and dangerously calm.

John glares her close face, knows he can break her hold effortlessly. “Who? Victor?” He spits.

Eurus tilts her head to the other side, a gradual smile stretching across her face. Slowly, she shakes her head.

John swallows, knows she felt it under her hand. “Sherlock?”  

Eurus moves her titled head a fraction backwards, as if listening to something behind her. Her pale eyes bore into John’s and she blinks lazily, her smile quirking on one side for a fraction of a second.

“What’s going on here, then?” 

After a second longer, Eurus casually drops her hand and takes two steps backwards. Her eyes never leave John’s as he rests against the door, resisting the urge to massage his neck.

“John was helping me rehearse a piece for a play I’m writing, Uncle Alfie,” Eurus drawls, pale irises still attached firmly to John’s face. 

“Oh?” Alfie steps forward, casting an odd glance between them both.

John, trying hard to breathe normally, sends a sharp look at the approaching man. Then freezes. He looks back to Eurus, eyebrows furrowed in question. 

Eurus, reading his expression clearly, doesn’t react. Her face is the same solid mask Sherlock had on his face when he told John to get out. She stares him down for a moment more, before pirouetting and trotting up the stairs two at a time.

“She’s an odd one, that girl,” Alfie watches her retreating back. 

John is staring at him, heart thudding painfully. 

“Excuse me,” John mutters, his previous anger draining him. Now he just feels wrecked, like he’s been cut open for all to see. As he brushes past the man, Alfie catches his arm.

“Are you okay, John?” he asks, face a mask of concern.

John looks up at him, feels an odd desire to tell him truthfully  _ ‘No’  _ before he pushes it aside with an internal jerk. 

“Fine.” John forces a smile, tugs at his arm pointedly until the man lets him go with a small nod. John makes his way swiftly towards the kitchen, then pauses by the door. He glances back, watching Alfie look up towards the stairs for a moment, before he wanders leisurely towards the main sitting room. John pushes open the door, pads through the kitchen where Mr and Mrs Holmes are chatting amicably about something he could not even begin to try to pay attention to, and out of the back door into the garden. 

* * *

 

The Holmes’ garden is vast and plush, a rich greenery that is painted with dots of grey on the far left where the gravestones of past ancestors resides. It should be morbid, but brightly coloured  chirping birds perch happily on the stones, a stark contrast of life and death. A cool breeze ruffles John’s hair as he rocks slowly back and forth on a white swing seat on the wooden decking, casting his eyes over towards the woodland area where he knows a hidden well sits undisturbed and nestled between the trees.  

Now that the anger has dissolved John is a swinging, miserable ball of regret. He doesn’t know what it is about Sherlock that makes him lose control like that. And  _ god,  _ does John lose control. 

Painful images of his fist flying repeatedly towards Sherlock’s face in a morgue fills John’s head and he lets out a deep sigh. Strange, how the thought of hitting  _ this  _ world’s Sherlock fill him with disgust, wonders if it’s because he’s so young. Or if it’s the constant subtle smudges of bruised skin on his arms and neck. Or maybe it’s the vulnerable looks, the soft smiles that the older Sherlock tries so hard to hide. John has hit  _ his  _ Sherlock a great many times, sometimes for a case, sometimes just purely in anger. Sometimes justified, like his ‘resurrection’, and sometimes not. That’s not to say Sherlock hasn’t dolled out his own dose of violence, throwing mugs at John that always miss whilst amid a tantrum, shoving him away during a fight or punching him in the face before they met Irene Adler so that John would hit him back. But John realises with a horrible pang; Sherlock has never laid a hand on him with the intention to  _ hurt.  _ But John has. And what does that say about him? 

A deep ache fills John’s bones and once again he feels a desperate desire to be back home. Back to where is life is in shambles, yes, but also where Sherlock and him have spent enough years together to understand who they are. Where Sherlock has grown and changed for John in so many ways, has taken on the responsibility of a goddaughter for christ sake. Sherlock who never moved one item from John’s old bedroom; maybe always knowing he would come back.  _ Hoping he would come back?  _

John doesn’t know, can’t find out until he talks to Sherlock himself. Whenever that will be. 

John presses his fingertips to his lips, imagines the older Sherlock’s mouth against his, stubble scraping against his cheek and a broad chest brushing up against his.

A shooting pang of desire makes him jerk upright. 

_ Oh. _

“I thought you were leaving.”

John jumps, turning towards Sherlock’s deep voice and spotting him standing at the doorway with a closed expression. 

“So did I,” John murmurs, planting his feet onto the floor to stop the seat swinging.

Sherlock’s eyes dart across John’s face for a moment, before he steps outside and closes the back door with a soft click. He walks ahead, stopping at the edge of the decking and staring out into the woods, his back to John. John’s eyes follow the rigid line of his spine, the tense muscles of his back.

“What is his name?”

John frowns. “Who?”

Sherlock shoots John a look over his shoulder before turning away almost immediately.

John tries to think of something to say, finding it inappropriately humorous that Sherlock is jealous of himself. Instead, he stands up slowly and moves closer to the younger man. After a second of hesitation, he slides his hands up Sherlock’s sides and cups his ribs, resting his chin on his shoulder. Feels Sherlock jerk under is touch, then shiver.

“It doesn’t matter,” John whispers. And it doesn’t. They are the same.

Sherlock turns, fixes his blank stare on John’s face. 

“It doesn’t matter,” John says again, reaching up with one hand to stroke along Sherlock’s prominent cheekbone with his thumb.   

Sherlock doesn’t react, but his eyelids flutter for a moment. 

“I’m sorry-” John begins, heart aching.

“Shut up.” 

John fights a smile, traces Sherlock’s cheek again as the man blinks impassively down at him. 

“Do you want me to leave?” John asks, dreading the answer but needing to know.

Sherlock hesitates, then shakes his head with a small movement that speaks volumes. 

John sucks in a breath of relief, leans up and softly presses their mouths together.

“Good,” he breathes into Sherlock’s mouth. “Good.”

After a moment, Sherlock’s lips purse into the kiss, hands cautiously skimming John’s waist. 

John pecks his mouth once, twice, then pulls back. Strokes Sherlock’s cheek again. 

“Good.” 

_ _


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to the unforgivable delay, this chapter is a little longer and a little naughty. 
> 
> Excuse errors, I really am not a very good proofreader.

They stand together on the porch for a few long moments and Sherlock’s face doesn’t soften as John expected, in fact his face hasn’t changed at all since he came outside. Since the confrontation in his room. His hooded eyes flick over John’s face, expression closed, before darting past John’s shoulder for a quick second towards the house. Sherlock abruptly pulls out of John’s grasp and takes two steps to the side, turning around to face the garden once more. John lets him go, hands dropping to his sides.

After a moment of silence, John pads towards him, turning to lean his back against the wooden railing so he can look up into Sherlock’s face. Close enough to touch but pointedly not.

Sherlock doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed at a singular spot in the distance, spine tall and ridgid.

John sighs. “Look. I’m not good with-what I said earlier, that wasn’t-”

“Shut up.”

John frowns at the harsh reply, he understands Sherlock’s anger but how can he make it right if the man won’t let him speak? “I’m just saying-”

“Shut. Up.” Sherlock says quietly, pronouncing the ‘t’ and ‘p’ with deliberate care.

John huffs, irritated, and looks away from Sherlock’s cold profile.

That’s when he spots a shadow of a figure in the corner of his eye. John darts a startled look upwards and there; standing in the kitchen, watching them through the window, is Alfie. His face is a blank mask of expression, but John can see a muscle in his jaw fluttering repeatedly. Their eyes meet, John tenses, and then the man is turning away and disappears.

John glances back towards Sherlock, realisation dawning. _Jesus_ . John pinches the bridge of his nose. _This is all so fucked._

“I need to talk to you about Alfie,” John murmurs before his nerve leaves him, holding onto his irritation with both hands to stop him from falling apart.

“Stop talki-” Sherlock begins in a hiss.

“He’s gone,” John interrupts lowly, dropping his hand and staring at the empty window.

Sherlock sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, hesitates for one second before darting a quick look over his shoulder. He visibly relaxes, letting out a little breath and not meeting John’s eyes.

“Sherlock, Christ, what the fuck is going on here?” John asks a bit desperately, weary and tired but heart thudding uncomfortably in his chest.   

Sherlock doesn’t react at first, doesn’t move a muscle. But then, he turns towards John slowly with the most awful patronising look John has seen yet, eyebrows raised and mouth twisted into a horrible little smirk. He opens his mouth and John reaches up to slap his palm over it before he can utter a sound.

“Don’t. Just-don’t do that.” John shakes his head at him, eyes emploring and lips pinched together in a tight line. Sherlock’s eyes have widened, and when John lowers his hand his expression has transformed into such an honest look of vulnerability that John has to actively stop himself from reaching out and tugging him into a hug. A second later, the look shutters and Sherlock is a blank mask once more. He turns back to face the garden again.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock lets out an odd laugh suddenly, glancing back at John with a casual air. He rolls his eyes, smiling ruefully. “John, you’re overthinking this.”

“No I’m not.”

Sherlock turns to face him fully, leaning one hip on the railing and shaking his head at John as if he’s a child who has just announced he’s Spiderman. “You are. I understand, maybe I have alluded towards... _something_ which has in turn caused you to reach some sort of conclusion. I apologise for that, admittedly I do have a tendency to play up dramatics. Just ask Victor. Or my mother. Or anyone, really. But, truthfully, you are worrying about nothing.”

John clenches his teeth, staring up into Sherlock open, amused face. If John were anyone else, he would have heard nothing but honesty. Would have _seen_ nothing but honesty; in the twinkle of his eyes, the tilt of his lips, the line of his shoulders.

But John isn’t just anyone. He doesn’t believe Sherlock. But how to explain that? How to explain that he can’t just let this go, that a large portion is due to a clenching cramp in his gut. How to explain, _‘See, the thing is, I_ know _you quite well actually and you’re acting-’_ what? _Different?_ Not really. _Strange?_ Somewhat.

 _Like you’re tense and scared and trying desperately not to show it?_ Yes. That.

_And the only reason I can see that is because I’ve seen you look like that before; at the pool, on the roof, in the train car...at my wedding._

John realises now he can’t just ask Sherlock and expect him to answer with the truth. It was stupid to expect that in the first place, Sherlock has always had an exceptional talent for avoidance. And so, John nods at him, smiles tightly and turns away.

From the corner of his eye he spies Sherlock letting out a silent breath of relief, shoulders slumping marginally.

“Okay,” John murmurs into the sky.

“Okay,” Sherlock says back, sounding relaxed and pleased.

John nods again. “I guess I’ll just have to ask someone else, then.”

Sherlock snaps his head round to John so fast his neck cracks. “What?”

John shrugs nonchalantly and opens his mouth to speak.

Suddenly, a loud screech fills the air coming from the house and they both blink a startled look at each other, conversation momentarily forgotten, before darting through the door into the kitchen.

The room is full of chattering people, and John hesitates at the smiling faces around them.

“Speak and he shall appear, look at my littlest nephew!” comes a booming voice and suddenly Sherlock is being bodily picked up and spun around by a pair of strong arms adorned in a floral pattern.

Sherlock squirms in the hug, face a little flushed, but he’s grinning widely and squeezes the man’s forearms affectionately when he is put back down.

“Or should I say; not so little anymore! My, you look like a greyhound. Get him to the races Will!” The man laughs loudly at his joke, placing one hand on top of Sherlock’s head and sliding it across the air to line up to the bridge of his own nose, going cross-eyed in the process. “Almost, almost.”

John assesses the tall newcomer, not recognising him but finding little similarities in Sherlock’s face. Their mouths are the same, as is the shape of their noses yet the taller man’s is longer. His face is lined and jolly, wrinkles set deep in the corner of his eyes and mouth; visual evidence of someone who spends much of their time smiling and laughing. His hair is white and long, tied back into a careless bun that should look odd on an older man but somehow works. Maybe due to the colourful and rather bohemian way the man is dressed; the white shirt rolled up to his forearms with a colourful array of small flowers dotted around the material, the bright red woolen waistcoat and dark blue jeans tucked into tanned cowboy boots. His wrists jingle with golden bangles, almost every finger shining with a variety of expensive looking rings.  

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock asks, glancing towards his parents who are smiling and pouring glasses of wine over by the counter.

“Must there be a reason? Must I make an appointment? Are you so busy with your studies that you need an advanced notice? Now I know that can’t be true due to your expulsion, or should I say _explosion,_ ha-ha! Although perhaps that is a cheap shot, I apologise, I’m sure you’ve heard it all before, blah blah you naughty chicken, blah blah-which reminds me! I must-but wait! Who is this?”

John blinks as cloudy blue eyes settle on his face, mind desperately trying to keep up with the rapid change of subjects. The man speaks much like Sherlock does when he’s talking himself through a multitude of deductions and evidence, as if his brain is running too fast for his mouth to keep up.

John extents his hand, “John Watson, a friend of Sherlock’s.”

The older man sucks in a delighted breath, glancing at Sherlock with a large white smile before slapping John’s hand away and pulling him into a strong embrace.

“John hit his head about a week ago, bless him, and it caused a bout of amnesia. He’s staying with us over the summer before heading back to university in London. Our Sherlock has been looking after him while he finds his feet,” Mr Holmes supplies, casting a fond look over to his son and John.

“Amnesia!? How fascinating,” the man cries, still holding onto John tightly. “I’ll have to pick your brains when we get a free moment,” he says, prodding a sparkling finger at John’s undamaged temple.

John tries to gently pull away, but the man either doesn’t take the hint or simply doesn’t care and sways them both from side to side for a moment. John casts his eyes to the side and spies Sherlock watching him in amusement. John raises an eyebrow and Sherlock shrugs in response.       

Thankfully the man releases him a second later, holding him at arm's length and casting an eye down John’s body.

“And what are you studying in London, sir?” he smiles, resting large hands on John’s shoulders.

“Medicine,” John smiles, giving in to the man-handling.

The man’s smile gets impossibly wider and he shakes his head as if it’s the most awe-inspiring thing he’s ever heard. “A doctor! How wonderful, how marvellous! Your parents must be endlessly proud, I know I would be that’s for sure. I would be telling every man I passed-”

“John’s parents are dead,” Sherlock cuts in casually.

“Sherlock!” Mrs Holmes scolds, shooting him a dark look.

“No, it’s fine, I mean, they are-” John begins, cutting himself off when his face is captured by two warm palms and he finds himself staring up in bewilderment into two watery eyes.

“Oh my boy, your poor old soul. Too young to be ripped away from the bosom of a mother, from the firm hand of a father. My deepest condolences.”

John opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. “Thank you,” he murmurs eventually, at a loss.

The man nods solemnly, looking close to tears. Uncomfortable, John reaches up and awkwardly pats the back of one large hand in a comforting manner.

After a moment, John asks, “Sorry, who are you?”

The man rears back as if burned, staring at John with wide eyes, before promptly doubling over in a fit of deep laughter.  

“Oh, okay,” John mutters in surprise, taking a hasty step backwards and searching for Sherlock’s face with his eyes.

Sherlock grins at him, glances back at the man who is slapping his hands on his thighs uncontrollably.

“This is our Uncle, Rudolph. Dad’s brother,” Sherlock explains.

“Oh. _Oh,_ ” John says, looks back at the elder man with wide eyes. “ _This_ is Uncle Rudy.”

Sherlock shoots John a questioning look, which he ignores.

John has heard of Uncle Rudy only a handful of times, mainly during conversations (arguments) between Sherlock and Mycroft. From what he could gather; both brothers were close to the man, he was a cross-dresser, and he was the one who ultimately decided to send Eurus away to Sherrinford after burning down the family home.

Mycroft had, surprisingly, taken the main brunt of the blame when it came to deceiving his parents about the death of his sister all those years ago, but John had found that rather ridiculous in hindsight considering he would have only been about thirteen at the time. Sure, it can be presumed that Mycroft was as cold, calculating and clever as a young teenager as he is now, and John wouldn’t doubt that at all if he hadn’t gone through hours and _hours_ of home-video footage from their childhood with Sherlock a few weeks ago. None of which, by the way, had any sign of their young sister which can only mean to John that Mycroft had spent a huge proportion of time meticulously erasing her existence from the films.  

Or just paid someone else to do it. The latter being more accurate come to think of it.

Not for the first time, John can’t help but wonder at the massive effort this family goes through to be as melodramatic as possible.

Rudy is now standing upright, dabbing tears from his face with a handkerchief. He smiles at John, shaking his head in a self-deprecating manner.

“You must forgive me, John. My manners must have soured right out of the door when you opened it. Not your fault at all, of course, I hope that isn’t implied! My own arrogance and presumption is not to be taken lightly in this matter, _oh,_ I shall think about this every night for a week at the very least!”

“It’s really fine-”

“Uncle Rudy, let us not delve into your dramatics this evening,” comes a low, exasperated voice from the door.

John snaps his head round as Sherlock lets out a quiet groan.

“I _knew_ you would be lurking around here somewhere,” Sherlock mutters with bad grace.

“Hello to you too, little brother,” Mycroft quirks an eyebrow around the room before stepping inside and planting a kiss onto his mother’s smiling cheek.

“It’s a lovely surprise, put that bottom lip away young man!” Ms Bennet swats Sherlock on the behind as she passes him, rushing forward to accept an embrace from the older Holmes brother.

“Is that wine I spy, Emelia?” Rudy cries, diving over towards her with a hand outstretched.

As the loud murmur of voices starts up again with overlapping conversations, John takes a moment to cast his eye around the room now the attention isn’t solely on himself. Mr Holmes and Alfie are laughing about something or other by the sink, Sherlock has been dragged off to a corner by Rudy and they’re conversing in low voices as the older man fiddles with the radio, while Mrs Holmes, Ms Bennet and Mycroft clink their wine glasses together with large smiles. John indulges himself with a quick assessment of Mycroft; he’s a little plumper than the one from home, hair fuller and a dark auburn, pale and freckly. He looks _young._ Which is odd, in a way. John has never really been able to picture Mycroft as a young man, just assumed he came into this world looking vaguely stressed with a receding hairline. John watches as his blue eyes pan over to his brother as his mother pats him affectionately on the cheek, and John wonders at their relationship in this world.

Considering the basis of Sherlock’s argument earlier, it doesn’t seem to be much different.

Feeling a bit out of place and a bit like he’s intruding, John slips out of the kitchen door once more. The sound of music fills the air, along with a triumphant, “Listen to the lyrics of this song, Sherlock, really _listen_ , it’s a story about love!” from Rudy muffles as the door shuts quietly behind him.

John sucks in a great lungful of fresh air, padding back over to the wooden railing and resting his hands on it, trailing his fingertips over the flaking paint.

He can hear Rudy singing loudly, presumably to Sherlock, and smiles a little to himself. _They’re an odd bunch,_ John thinks fondly, _those Holmes’s._

“John Watson. My parents speak highly of you.”

John, rather expecting this confrontation at some point, glances over his shoulder. “Do they? That’s good.”

Mycroft steps leisurely over to him, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Hm. I hear Sherlock in particular has formed some sort of... _attachment_ to you.” His eyes, a darker blue than his siblings, flick down John’s body as if trying to discover why that is.

John shrugs. “We get on.”

Mycroft smiles, slow and deliberately complaisant. “I’m sure.”

John nods, turning his body to face him fully. “So well, in fact, that he seems to be under the impression that you have me spying on him.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, the only change in his expression. “Does he, now? I fear his paranoia is worsening.”

“Is it paranoia?” John smiles to take the sting out of the words. “Or _do_ you have people spying on him?”

Mycroft scoffs delicately. “Why on earth would I have people spying on my little brother?” he asks in a condescending tone. “Who lives at home, with his family and friends?”

John lifts one shoulder, imitating Mycroft’s drawling accent with a grin, “Why, indeed?”

Mycroft scans his face for a few seconds before humming a small chuckle. “He holds quite an influence over you, I see. Although I cannot say I’m surprised, you do seem the type.”

John ignores the insult, knows Mycroft well enough to spot an attempt at deflection with a well-timed barb. Sherlock does the same thing.

“Seems strange is all, that being the first conclusion he jumps to.”

Mycroft sighs. “Mr Watson, I hardly have the means to spy on _anyone_ let alone my siblings.”

John holds back his own scoff, and is cut off from replying when Mycroft gives him a hooded look and turns back towards the door.

“I believe lunch will be served soon, if you will be joining us.”

John watches him turn to go, frowning a little. _Would_ this Mycroft feel the need to keep an eye on his little brother? After all, wasn’t it Sherlock’s forgotten memory of Eurus and his fabrication of Victor the primary reason behind the eldest sibling’s concern? John doesn’t know; feels like there is far more things to be concerned about when it comes to Sherlock, in this world _and_ his.

But he does know one thing for sure, and that is that Mycroft Holmes loves his brother.

A split second decision causes John to dart forward towards the retreating back. “Mycroft, wait.”

Mycroft stops, casting John a questioning look over his shoulder. John reaches out and pulls the door closed once more, peeking into the window quickly to check no one has noticed. Mycroft takes a sharp step backwards, as if John’s close proximity is accompanied by a bad smell. John stops himself from rolling his eyes.

“Yes?” Mycroft asks expectantly.

John fixes his eyes to the man’s face, watching intently. “Alfie.”

There; a small flicker in his eyes. John would have missed it if he wasn’t looking for it.

Mycroft tilts his head to one side, curious and casual. “What about him?”

John gives him a pointed look, wishing the man was the Myroft who _knows_ John so he can stop with the pretenses. Not that Mycroft from home is _honest_ by any means, but he’s somewhat given up trying to to intimidate John and purposely keep him out of the loop.

Mycroft blinks lazily, ignoring the look, and John huffs out a breath of exasperation.

“What’s going on between Sherlock and Alfie?” John demands in a low hiss.

Mycroft’s eyebrows quirk in confusion. “Alfred is Sherlock’s godfather,” he states unhelpfully.  

“No that’s not-there’s something _weird_ there, isn’t there?”

“Is there?” Mycroft indulges absently, eyes flicking back to the door in boredom.

“You must see it,” John snaps desperately, the other man’s lack of concern irritating him. “How can you not see it? You see _every-_ ” John stops himself from finishing his sentence, but Mycroft turns to give him a penerative look anyway.

There’s a tense pause, then Mycroft sniffs and raises an eyebrow. “Don’t get too comfortable, Mr Watson. Remember, you and my brother have only just met. Do not fall under an assumption that you _know_ him.” He flicks his eyes over John once more, expression twisting slightly. “He will grow bored soon enough.”

John clenches his jaw, biting back a retort as Mycroft turns away towards the door once again. John takes a deep breath, striding over to the railing to grip onto the wood with both hands, knuckles white. It’s infuriating, he knows _knows_ something is wrong. It’s plain as day, his gut churns with nausea every time Alfie is around, every time those dark eyes flick in Sherlock’s direction. The thought of Mycroft turning a blind eye, Mycroft who is fiercely protective and incessantly intrusive, just doesn’t make sense.

“Elaborate.”

John starts at the word, spinning around to see Mycroft standing motionless by the closed door, hand on the knob with his back turned and tense.

“You _do_ see it,” John realises.

“I don’t know what I-” Mycroft stops, the admission apparently not sitting well in his mouth. He casts a look at John over his shoulder, face unreadable. “I have to be back in London by the morning,” an odd smile tilts his lips. “If I asked you to keep an eye on him, am I to assume you would take that as spying?”

John hesitates, shakes his head. “Not about this.”

Mycroft turns fully to regard John thoughtfully. “The attachment is mutual, I see.”

“He holds an influence over me,” John quips, smiling wanly.

“Hm,” Mycroft nods once, one side of his mouth quirking upwards for a second. “I place my trust at your door then, Doctor.”

John is rather surprised to hear this, feels the need to point out, “I’m not a doctor yet.”

Mycroft glances down at John’s hands and smiles. “In all but paper.”

This is probably the closest thing to a compliment Mycroft has ever paid John and considering he’s known this Mycroft a good ten minutes at most, he suspects it was said more to cause alarm than approval.

With this is mind, John simply tilts his head in affirmation and smiles back. Mycroft quirks an eyebrow then turns to leave once more.

“When you say ‘keep an eye on him’, who exactly are we talking about?” John calls after him.

Mycroft hesitates, glances over his shoulder. “Both of them.” He slips back inside the house.

John stares out over the garden, wondering on Mycroft’s blind trust and if it’s genuine or some sort of test.

Either way, John is going to keep his promise. But not for Mycroft’s sake.

* * *

The afternoon passes surprisingly quickly, John’s initial awkwardness disappearing as soon as he re-entered the kitchen a few minutes after Mycroft. Sherlock and Rudy had immediately flown at him, as if waiting for his return, and dragged him into an argument about whether or not it takes seven years to digest chewing gum. Rudy was adamant that, ‘ _Of course it would take that long, it is not made for your tummy!_ ’ While Sherlock argued, ‘ _It wouldn’t take_ seven years _to digest, it would take as long as any other food you put in stomach acid, aka about eight hours!_ ’

John didn’t have the heart to tell them they were actually both wrong and that it’s impossible to digest chewing gum at all but it would come out eventually… And he certainly wasn’t going to tell them that the only reason he knew that was because he and Sherlock had had the same argument about three years ago that had ended with a quick google search and the both of them simultaneously muttering, ‘ _Oh’_.

And so, John had shrugged his ignorance and sipped at the wine Mr Holmes had handed him with a pat on his arm.

As evening drew closer, John came to realise that Uncle Rudy was really quite mad, and that Sherlock took after him much more than he did his parents. Rudy was generally kinder in a more deliberate way and made a pointed effort to include John in every conversation. He didn’t have much of a filter in the things he said, much like his youngest nephew, and it was clear fairly early on that Sherlock was his absolute favourite family member and the feeling seemed mutual. The three of them sat at the very end of the dining room table, chatting and laughing and bickering in such a familiar way that John felt a bit like he was talking to two Sherlock’s at once.

What was most curious of all, however, was the fact that Alfie hadn’t paid the slightest bit of attention to Sherlock, John _or_ Rudy all day since Mycroft and his Uncle’s arrival. As far as John could see, Alfie hadn’t even greeted the elder man. And it wasn’t until much later on in the evening (when lunch had turned into drinks and drinks had turned into more drinks, which had then turned into dancing which had turned into pre-dinner drinks) when Alfie had then begun telling a loud and rather derogatory story about a man who used to work with him and Emelia years prior, when Rudy had cut across him saying;

“I don’t know why you feel the need to scorn the man for living his best life and thus allowing happiness to shine through his heart, but if doing so makes you feel like _you_ are living your best life and it makes _you_ happy then I rather suppose it would be hypocritical for me to scorn you in return.”

Both John and Sherlock had sniggered into the accompanying silence, quite a number of glasses of wine under their belts at this point, and Alfie had blinked across the room at them as if noticing them all for the first time.

Then, Emelia had nodded slowly and said, “He has a point, Alfie.”

“Cheers to that,” John had muttered quietly, clinking his wine glass against Sherlock’s on the table.

It should have been awkward, the heavy tension as Rudy had stared down the glaring man with an impressive lack of emotion, if John didn’t absolutely _adore_ watching Alfie being put in his place and then stumble out a lighthearted apology.

John had briefly wondered if Rudy and Alfie had ever met before, would be surprised if they hadn’t, but that interaction just cemented the fact that: yes, they knew each other. They just didn’t like each other. And it was endlessly refreshing.

John had then topped up Rudy’s wine glass in an act of solidarity, which distracted the man enough to turn his hard blue eyes away from Alfie’s face and begin a game of ‘Wine Connoisseurs’ with Sherlock, a game they apparently played _a lot_. Rudy had spent the next five minutes creating a character for John to join in, his and Sherlock’s characters already establishing in-depth backstories and strong french accents.

“We usually play speaking french,” Sherlock had pointed out to John at one point, which had caused Rudy to glare at him for breaking character.

Somewhere during the evening, Ms Bennet had decided to forgo making a large dinner and had laid out plates and bowls of nibbles and dips across the table. John was secretly relieved about that, as it allowed the atmosphere to continue with its easy informality and thus allowed him to continue to ignore everyone else in the room but his two companions without seeming rude.

 

“I find this Merlot to be a particular blend of walnuts and caramel, wouldn't you agree Giles?” Rudy addresses John, who _apparently_ isn’t putting enough effort into the game.

John snaps his attention back to the man, taking a delicate sip of wine and nodding solemnly. “Couldn’t have put it better myself, Eleanore.”  

“I think you’ll find it’s _almond_ and caramel. Call yourself wine connoisseurs? More like wine _c_ _ounterfeiters._ I am disgusted,” Sherlock sniffs at them.

Rudy gasps loudly, placing an offended hand over his heart.

“Are you playing ‘Wine Connoisseurs’ without me?”

John starts and twists his head around to see Eurus standing behind him, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on her face.

Rudy stands abruptly, knocking the table and nearly upturning their glasses. Sherlock reaches out a quick hand to steady them.

“Gaspard Dubois! My old nemesis!” Rudy cries, raising his fists in front of if him like a victorian bare-knuckle boxer.  

“Lower your fists, Eleanore, are you a primitive sort?” Eurus gives Rudy an appalled look before _giggling_ and rushing around the table to wrap her arms around the man.

Rudy lets out a deep chuckle, murmuring something unintelligible into her ear as he squeezes her tightly to his chest.

John stares at them, baffled, as Rudy lets her go and pulls close another chair next to him. Eurus plops down with a grin and begins rattling off questions about life in London and whether he is still friends with Annie Lennox. John catches Sherlock’s eye with a frown, who leans over.

“Uncle Rudy is incredibly wealthy and incredibly generous,” he breathes, lips brushing the shell of John’s ear.  

John casts his eyes back over to Eurus, who is laughing prettily at her Uncle’s antics with a hand on his arm. John scoffs, turning back and starts when he notices Sherlock hasn’t moved away and his eyes are trained on John’s mouth.

John licks his lips, watching with a thrill as Sherlock’s eyes dilate and he sucks in a little breath before moving back, a hint of a flush high on his cheekbones.

Pulse quickening and head a little light from alcohol, John slips one hand under the table and rests his palm just above Sherlock’s knee. The man jolts in response but otherwise doesn’t react except to take a large gulp of wine. Smirking into his own glass, John dances his hand a little higher up Sherlock’s thigh, enjoying the way Sherlock shifts in his seat.

“Have you ever visited the Cutty Sark, John?” Eurus asks suddenly, head titled in his direction with a pleasant look.

“Erm,” John thinks rapidly, hand stilling on Sherlock’s leg. “Yeah, once for a school trip I think.”

Eurus smiles at him, and it’s such an honest expression that for a second John forgets who she really is.

As Rudy starts up another story about a pirate ship he bought in Maine, her eyes drift to John’s elbow and he tenses.

But then she is turning back to her Uncle with a look of playful disbelief at his speech and the moment passes.

John flexes his fingers unconsciously and Sherlock twitches under his hand. John turns to watch his face again, his profile blank, jaw clenched and breathing a little shallowly.

Blood rushing in his ears, John inches his fingers higher up Sherlock’s thigh before sliding ever so slowly inwards to run across the seam of his jeans.

Sherlock lets out a shaky exhale, eyes fixed firmly on rim of his glass, and he shifts his thighs wider a fraction. John bites hard at the inside of his cheek, reaching for his own glass with his free hand, fingers impossibly steady.

He takes a sip, other hand gliding leisurely higher until his pinky finger makes contact with Sherlock’s crotch. He sees Sherlock’s adam apple bob and lifts the finger up, using his nail to drag one long line from the base of Sherlock’s zipper down to the seat of the chair.  

Sherlock fights a shudder, shoulders tense and bottom lip now captured between his teeth. John looks away casually, taking another sip of wine as he feels his own jeans getting uncomfortably tight. He repeats the movement of his little finger, this time in an upwards stroke and can feel the bulge under the digit hardening.

“ _Jesus Christ,”_ Sherlock mutters under his breath and John hides a smirk.

“What’s that, Sherlock?” Rudy asks, glancing over at them with a questioning look.

Sherlock jerks upright, fixing a pained smile on his face. “I said ‘cheese and rice”. John asked me what I used to eat at university.”

Rudy gives him an odd look. “That doesn’t sound very appealing.”

Sherlock shrugs in reply and Rudy is tugged back around to face his niece once more.

Sherlock shoots John a dark look, and John smiles sweetly back at him, abandoning his teasing touches and simply sliding his entire palm across Sherlock’s crotch and giving a pointed squeeze.

Sherlock gasps loudly, turning it into a spluttering cough, before standing abruptly with an announcement that he needs the loo and scampering out of the room.

As Sherlock disappears, John glances around the room feeling vaguely smug, and notices Mrs Holmes’ eyes following her retreating son’s back. Mycroft, however, is staring at John with narrowed eyes. John smiles at him innocently, as Mrs Holmes follows Mycroft’s gaze before giving John a little wink. John nearly spits out his wine.

Then, Mrs Holmes is snapping her eyes away as Alfie moves to pass her, heading towards the door where Sherlock just escaped. With surprising quickness, she grips onto his arm, stilling him, and tugs the man closer into the conversation. John can’t hear what she’s saying, and her face seems pleasant enough, except he can see that her eyes are hard, as are the corners of her smile, and for the first time John wonders with a pang, just how ignorant she really lets on.  

John rises from his chair, suddenly desperate to leave this room full of pretense, and darts out of the room. He can feel a few eyes on him as he bolts out of the door, but no one tries to stop him.

John falters in the hall, wondering if Sherlock really _did_ go to the loo or if he fled to his room. He only has to ponder for a second, when he hears the tell-tell sound of a toilet flushing to his left and then the sound of running water.

Smiling to himself, John pads quietly over to the door to one of the downstairs loos. He waits patiently outside for a few moments before the lock clicks and he grabs the handle and swings inside.

John shuts the door behind him and locks it, turning back to Sherlock who has stumbled backwards in alarm, face pale and eyes wide. He blinks at John in surprise before sagging against the sink with a harsh exhale of breath.  

 _“Jesus,”_ he breathes, giving John a half-hearted glare.

“Nope, just me,” John smiles, leaning his back against the door.

They stare at each other for a long moment, both breathing shallowly as they rest on opposite sides of the room.

Silence.

John can feel his heart beating rapidly under his ribs, can practically _feel_ the gaze of those mismatched eyes on his face. Sherlock’s lips part and he darts his tongue out for a moment to swipe across his plump bottom lip. Neither move, a hidden force holding them back and away from each other. John’s hands twitch on the wood behind him, desperate to move forward but not allowing himself the indulgence. Not when Sherlock is standing there so very very still.

After a minute, Sherlock’s eyes dart quickly down John’s body, resting for a fraction of a second on his crotch, on the bulging evidence of his desire. Sherlock’s eyes have darkened considerably when they flick back up to John’s face and John can’t help a little pant from escaping his mouth.

Sherlock shifts slightly, resting his arse more securely on the sink and spreading his legs a little wider.

John clenches his jaw, staring unabashed at his long, lean frame.

Then, _god,_ Sherlock slowly tilts his head back, exposing the pale column of his throat. A clear sign of submission. And John wouldn’t have been able to stay put even if he were chained to the damn door.

He throws himself forward and charges at Sherlock, hands grabbing sharp hips, crushing their mouths together violently. Sherlock melts into his mouth immediately, his long fingers grasping at John’s waist and shoulders, desperately trying to tug him closer.

The kiss is a mash of teeth and tongue, sucking and biting. Their bodies tremble and shudder together, and Sherlock _whimpers_ when John rolls his hips against his thigh.

 _“God,”_ John pants into Sherlock’s mouth, can’t form any other coherent words, not when Sherlock reaches down to grab his arse, pulling him in tighter.

It’s not enough, the friction feels _wonderfulgloriousamazing,_ but the angle is wrong, John wants to _feel him_.

Sherlock breaks out of the kiss with a gasp for air, and John immediately attaches his mouth to that pale throat, grazing his teeth down to suck at one sharp collarbone.

 _“John,”_ Sherlock wines, canting his erection forward into John’s hip.

A deep growl escapes John’s throat, a noise he hasn’t heard in a great many years, and he slides his hands down Sherlock’s back, grabs his arse and lifts him up onto the low sink. Sherlock spreads his thighs wider, breath hitching, and John slots between them immediately and _yesthereyes_ their erections line up perfectly. John grinds forwards, reaching one hand up to grip the back of Sherlock’s neck and tug him down to press their lips together again.

Sherlock’s hands scrabble at the back of John’s head, fist into his hair. He’s jerking backwards with every thrust of John’s hips, making small desperate noises into his mouth and John thinks this could quite possibly be the most aroused he has ever felt in his life.

John pushes up the fabric of Sherlock’s top, pawing at the soft skin of his back and he can’t believe it’s taken so long for them to do this why haven't they done this before why didn’t he _realise-_

Sherlock breaks away from his mouth again, his head falling backwards as he pants into the air, eyes closed and mouth hanging open and John jolts as he looks up into his young face, cheeks flushed, skin smooth.

John stops moving, ears ringing.

_Did he really just mistake this Sherlock for the one at home?_

Guilt and confusion slams into his gut just as Sherlock’s eyes open and flick down to him in question.

“Wha-what is it?” Sherlock pants, hands tightening on John’s neck as if expecting him to try and pull away.

John stares at him, can’t stop his thoughts from racing and jumping to awful questions and even worse conclusions. Is he only doing this to fulfill some sort of sick fantasy, suppressed and ignored for so many years that he had forgotten its existence?  

Sherlock reads something in his face and slumps a little, leaning forward to rest his forehead against John’s.

“John?”

John opens his mouth but nothing comes out. For the first time since he woke up under that tree, John is overcome with the desire to tell Sherlock _everything_.

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and presses soft lips to John’s temple, his cheek, his jaw. Then he pulls back and gives John a level look.

“You have an annoying tendency to overthink things, John,” he states in such a matter-of-fact way, considering their positions, that John blinks and can’t help himself from huffing out a laugh.

Then, a memory from a few months ago:

_Sherlock sitting in his chair, Rosie on his lap, fixing John with the same level look his younger counterpart is giving him now and stating calmly, “John, you have an annoying tendency to overthink things. She isn’t going to care which episode of Peppa Pig you put on, it’s all just colours and sounds to her. Isn’t that right, Rosie?”_

John quirks a smile at the memory, looks back at Sherlock’s expectant face. The other man smiles tentatively and _yes_ , this is confusing and utterly insane, but they really are the same person and John would much rather be kissing that ridiculously soft mouth then _not._  

With that thought in mind, John reaches for Sherlock’s face again and slides his mouth against those _ridiculously soft_ lips and feels Sherlock sigh into him.

It starts off soft and achingly sweet, Sherlock hesitant from John’s momentary pause, but once John licks at the seam of his mouth Sherlock tightens his hold and then the desperation is back.

John returns to his exploration of the skin of Sherlock’s back, grunting as the man wraps his long legs around John’s waist and pulls him closer.

Slender hands fall to fumble at John’s belt, unfastening it with impressive speediness, and John sucks in a short breath. His button and zipper are open a second later and a warm palm slides into his trousers and-

_“Oh, fuck.”_

Sherlock strokes John’s length with surprising gentleness, fingers fluttering around the head and massaging the silky skin with such delicate care that John just _knows_ he’s trying to memorise the feeling with every soft brush of his fingertips.  

Sherlock moves his head to bite gently at John’s earlobe, breathing into his skin, “I’ve wanted to feel you for so long.”

John hums a noise of agreement, rolling his hips and into Sherlock’s fist. Sherlock takes the hint, gripping his cock a little tighter and stroking him from root to tip with deliberate slowness. Sparks fly behind John’s eyes and rubs his open mouth across Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock uses his free hand to slide up and under John’s shirt, fingers skimming across his stomach and torso, nails dragging lightly on the way back down and making John jerk.

_“Ah.”_

John reaches down with clumsy hands and tugs at Sherlock’s jeans, working them open as he fights to breathe.

John reaches in one palm and feels the heat and hardness hiding underneath Sherlock’s boxers, and _christyeslovely._ Sherlock jolts a little at his touch, letting out one long exhale into John’s neck.

Done is the time for teasing, John can’t stand the ache anymore and he reaches under the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and grips the long, silky soft flesh underneath.

Sherlock’s hand on his cock falters in it’s slow stroking, and he lets out a small yelp of surprise. John drags his hand roughly up once, then back down, then lower, reaching out with one finger to stroke along his perineum.

Sherlock moans, now pumping John’s cock with a rough hand that makes his toes curl.

“Wait, wait-” John pants, reaching blindly behind Sherlock for the hand soap bottle. Sherlock groans in frustration.

“For god’s sake John, what _now?”_

John lets out a breathless chuckle, shushing him with a press of teeth into his shoulder as he pumps two squirts of soap into his palm before pulling back and running his palm over Sherlock’s cock and then his own.

Sherlock watches him with a scowl before realisation hits him. “ _Oh._ John, you’re a genius. Who would have thought-”

“Shut up.” John rolls his eyes, leaning forward to capture those smirking lips with his own as he lines up their cocks, wrapping a loose fist around them both. He gives a slow thrust forward and they both groan at the sensation of skin sliding against skin, John’s eyes fluttering.

Sherlock’s hands grip hard onto the edge of the sink behind him, tilting his head back with a deep groan that sounds too-loud in the echo of the bathroom. He reaches out with one hand and quickly slaps it over John’s mouth as if _he_ had made the sound.

John bats his hand away in irritation, gripping the back of Sherlock’s neck once again and tugging his head forward to rest their foreheads together in an imitation of the moment earlier.

“Look at me,” John grunts lowly and Sherlock’s eyes snap open, pale irises only a thin ring around the black of his pupils.

John thrusts harder, pumping his fist to meet every roll of his hips as he stares into those odd eyes, fingers digging into Sherlock’s neck brutally.

Sherlock’s eyes are wide, his mouth panting hot breath over his face as his hands reach down to grab at John’s arse again, encouraging him to move faster.

 _“Fuck, fuck-”_ John murmurs, an uncontrollable steady stream of profanity pouring past his lips.

Sherlock’s breathing hitches suddenly, his eyes squeeze shut for a moment before forcing them open again.

 _“John…”_ he wines, titling his hips downwards to meet John’s thrusts desperately as his legs tighten around his waist.

John flies his hand faster, can feel the tell-tell tingle in his balls, and then Sherlock is coming. He pulls his head away from John’s and it falls backwards, nearly colliding with the mirror behind him.

 _“Christ, look at you,”_ John murmurs in appreciation as Sherlock’s long torso stretches out in front of him.  

Sherlock’s teeth bite into his bottom lip in an attempt to muffle the low noise trying to rip from his throat, and if they were anywhere else John would have forced his lips apart to hear it.

John slows his hand as Sherlock’s cock spurts another small rope and gentles his hold when the man twitches with oversensitivity.

John stares at him in amazement, at the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the flush of his neck. When Sherlock’s arms begin to tremble where they’re holding his upper body upright behind him, he moves to slump against John’s shoulder.

John catches his chest with one hand, the other now wrapped around his own aching cock, and pushes him gently backwards.

“No, no, stay like that. You look- _god-”_

Sherlock blinks at him slowly, looking a little baffled, but does as he’s told and leans backwards again on his hands, spread out and covered in sweat and semen.

John moves closer, eyes devouring Sherlock’s face, his chest, his softening cock and limp thighs as he pulls his fist over himself. Sherlock watches him, enraptured, and then slowly inches his t-shirt up over his flat stomach, exposing the tense muscles of his abdomen.

It doesn’t take long, four strokes at most, and then John lets out a gasp and spurts all over Sherlock’s stomach, his name on his lips.

Sparks fly across John’s vision, and when his hand has stilled and all he can hear is the panting of his own breath, he realises that he has slumped forward and is resting his head against Sherlock’s chest.

They sit like that for a moment or two, until Sherlock’s arms finally give out from under him and he collapses backwards, falling into the sink and bashing his head onto the mirror with a loud thunk.

“Fuck!”

John catches himself from pitching forward into him, raises his head and laughs helplessly as Sherlock winces with an irritated look, rubbing at the back of his skull as he struggles to sit upright.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock snaps, mouth twitching at the corners. He tries to heave himself out of the sink, promptly falling back on his arse with a huff, arms weak and still trembling slightly.

John wipes a tear from his face, grimacing suddenly as he smears the content of his palm over his cheek.

It’s now Sherlock’s turn to crack up, pointing at John’s face and nose crinkling as deep laughs bubble up from his chest.

John huffs over his chuckling and rolls his eyes as he glances around for a tissue. After he’s wiped his hands and face, he grips Sherlock’s forearms and tugs him out of the sink.

Sherlock, still giggling, slides his feet to the floor and stumbles a little before rightening himself, tucking himself back into this jeans and zipping himself up.

John does the same, casting an eye at the state of their shirts and pulling a face.

“Hold still.”

John wets another tissue under the stream of the tap and begins mopping up the stains on Sherlock’s top, then his own. He dumps everything in the toilet and flushes away the evidence of their activity.

“How’s the head?” John asks, stepping back over to Sherlock and reaching up with gentle fingers to probe at the back of his skull.

“Fine, it’s fine,” Sherlock says quietly, tilting his head away with a roll of his eyes.

John drops his hand, quirking an eyebrow at him. Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, looking utterly spent.

“Well,” John says.

“Well,” Sherlock nods.

They grin at each other, then Sherlock is leaning down and pressing his lips against John’s and it tastes of sweet honey and perfection.

They jump when a soft rap of knuckles knocks against the door. They stare at each other in momentary panic, then a quiet voice calls, “Are you finished? They’ve started talking about politics and I try to lean away from that topic of conversation due to a lack of interest.”

Sherlock huffs a small laugh makes for the door, opening it a crack. Rudy’s face appears in the small gap, pressing unnecessarily close into the wood on either side and causing the skin of his face to stretch wide.

His bright eyes glance around the room and settle on John standing over by the sink, who gives him a sheepish wave.

“Ah, bit of rumpy-pumpy?” Rudy asks, nodding in casual understanding before moving away, his voice drifting quieter as he wanders back towards the kitchen. “Fix yourself up boys, I require your presence!”

John and Sherlock glance at each other before dissolving into a fit of laughter.

 


End file.
